The momentous amount of damage I’m doing to myself is beginning to make me wonder if I skipped a few of my formative years.   And before you respond to this post with a raised eyebrow, twisted lip, and a rather unbecoming sneer, wait a moment.  My reasoning is sound, and the speculation won’t take long.


Most people that I know have had at least one broken bone in their life.  The girlfriend has had several, all the effect of gravity compounded by a stubborn sense of achievement.  This has been accompanied by all manner of other forms of injury – namely sprains, contusions, bumps, bruises, and cuts of every size and shape.  It’s a wonder anyone makes it out into their adult life without looking like some stitched-together monstrosity just raised from the grave (here’s looking at you, Frankie…).


I’ve been told that these sorts of injuries, and their frequency, are all part of natural life.  We can’t get through the most clumsy, confused, tumultuous period of our lives – where our bodies are growing faster than our ability to process movement (thus leaving most in the physical shape of a twelve year old with the reactions of someone who is only seven) – without having some sort of repercussion to our growth in the shape of physical damage.


Added to that are the natural inclinations of our young species to experiment with themselves.  (Could I possibly jump off of the roof of a garage and land on the ground without breaking anything?  I have no idea….let’s find out!)  This leads to more injury, but, like a cherry-red stove that ensures its presence is never forgotten – after the first fatal mistake to touch it – it seems that we begin to remember that some things just hurt after a certain point in time.  We’re less likely to be injured as we grow because we use the remembered hurt to remind ourselves of how much we’d rather not do that again.  Whatever it was.


I must have skipped that step.  I’ve never broken any bones – that’s got to be part of it.  There is some crucial piece of time that I missed – due to inattentiveness, fast mental maturity, or maybe even my enjoyment of laying on grass and listening to the wind blow.  I always enjoyed a good sit, rather than frenzied activities to run around kicking balls or throwing them every which way.  I missed a grand opportunity to be injured, and it is now manifesting itself in my haphazard approach to personal safety as an adult.  I think I’m being safe, but really, I’m not.


That has to be it.  What else could explain the random acts of self-injury that have been dogging my steps for the past two years?


Maybe I’m just clumsy?


© 2011, Kira. All rights reserved.