Just when I think it isn't possible for one small girl to get any clumsier, I manage to find and conquer whole new levels of stumblefootedness. Last night the doorbell rang while I was napping on the couch and, skipping the transition between asleep and awake altogether, I careened around the end table and against the back of the couch in such a way that the last finger on my left hand went in an entirely different direction from the rest of them. By the time I woke up this morning whole sections of my hand that I didn't even know existed were making their presence known.
My doctor--who you, if you've been playing along on the home game, might remember as a lady who likes to laugh and prescribe a houseboy whenever I do things like get hit by a car crossing the street or come down with strep throat--laughed again, told me that spraining my finger was a bad idea, and told me to keep my fingers taped together for the next few days. (And also to get a houseboy.) Do you know how hard it is to type with two fingers taped together? It's not very easy at all.
This afternoon I bought new pillows again, which involved spending a lot more time on the floor of the store than some might deem ladylike.
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