It was bound to happen sooner or later. I’ve ran over 1150 miles so far this year and aside from one slip on some ice I haven’t had any running injuries to deal with thankfully. I still don’t.
This injury is not running related. It happened while I was reading at night and walking around my apartment not really looking where I was going. For some reason the French doors that divide our bedroom from the rest of the space were partially opened. In my defense, these doors are never opened because they’re heavy and loud and every time we move them paint peels off and crumbles to the floor.
Last night the doors were partially open unbeknownst to me. I’m holding a book horizontal in front of me and walking at normal pace when the book suddenly slams into the door and I slam into the book. It’s like when you walk down stairs and take an extra step down on flat ground and for some reason your momentum feels disproportionate to one small ordinary step.
Knocked the wind out of me and now there’s a big fat bruise over my the right side of my rib cage. Last year my aunt cracked a rib. Actually her hubby cracked it because she was choking on a chicken bone. True story. Yup, that actually happens. And my sister bruised her ribs. The pain I feel is absolutely nothing in comparison, just a little tenderness in a spot I’m not used to being aware of.
It’s not going to leave a scar, but I kind of wish it would, just a small one. Then I could be the salty person at the end of the bar with the mysterious scar (see-able because I’d cut a hole in my shirts to show it off) and every now and then I get chatty enough to tell the tale of the time a book tried to kill me. Hey, it was late and felt an awful lot like an attack on my life. You don’t know. You weren’t there.
Don’t worry, no harm was done to the book in the making of this wound. Which book you ask? A Dance with Dragons, of course. I’m re-reading the end because how dare they. Geooooorge!