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I was the attention seeking little kid that wanted to break a bone. That’s right, I envied the classmates who came to school with casts on their appendages. I didn’t fear the pain that was associated with breaking a bone, I wanted everyone to sign my plastered leg and try to scratch an itch with a knitting needle out of desperation. Unfortunately I was also the little kid that drank two gallons of milk a week, and didn’t realize that I was my own calcium-fortifying nemesis.

I made it to adulthood before I broke my first bone, but pinky toes are often the casualty of drunken barefoot nights at the beach during college, right? Oh you poor people that didn’t go to college near the beach, you missed spinning in circles staring at the stars until you magically find yourself laughing and lying on your side in the cold sand. Shut up, this is fun.

But toes don’t get a cast!

Last July 4th, when I was 32 years old, I really thought my cast had come. Waking up in a hospital emergency room, when the last thing I remembered was cycling along the Chicago lakefront bike path travelling around 17mph? ┬áThis had to be it! My hand looked like a prop from a horror movie, but it wasn’t broken. My face and tailbone were. (I will never cease to be amused that I landed on my face and broke my ass, who else does that?) And just in case you were wondering, inflatable donut does not equal cast.

It has been over a year, and I am just now getting back on my bike, perhaps if I actually sat on an inflatable donut I would have been able to return earlier. I’m not afraid. I know I was lucky to not have broken a lot more than I did, to have flown clear of my bike and not broken a femur or vertebrae. I think I have a special protection though, Murphy’s Law, which is screwing up that odd little kid’s dream of having a cast.

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