Accidents at the Gyme

A couple stupendous things have happened lately and it would be a shame not to chronicle them as historic fact for someone 3000 years from now to read in...consternation.

The first of these eventful happenings was the accident at the gym, which I will henceforth call "gyme" after one particularly brilliant Simpsons episode. If I was as technologically-inclined as some others, perhaps I could link you to it, but the reality is I would fail so completely at such a task that you'll simply either have to already be in the know, or wonder forever.

Last Thursday, as all Thursdays, as I was contemplating my unemployment (this is much more easily done on a day with no classes), I decided that I should at least not let myself become fat and unemployed, and so headed to the gyme. All gymes have pretty much the same machines, and similar setups, but it still takes a bit of getting used to switching from one to another, a lesson I wish all my (few) readers to depart with.

Finishing up the leg portion of my workout, I snaked my way around one juice monkey, two bicep machines and a pile of dumbbells and ended up at the calf-raise machine. Now the hilarity begins because my now wounded appendage is my thumb, which cannot possibly be further from the area this machine is supposed to work, but my graceful and elegant self still managed to make it happen.

As I was pulling the lever out to adjust the machine so obviously set for a much smaller gyme-goer, reading the sign stating in bold lettering to be extra careful with it, the top bar previously being held by the lever I just pulled out slammed down on my thumb, which was perfectly positioned at the point of contact between the top solid bar and the hollow bar that it falls into.

In the midst of a slightly jazzy new-age twenties number that was blasting through the earphones of my ipod, my brain realized that blood was spurting out of my thumb at an alarming rate. Rather than your normal , expected reaction, all I felt was utter frustration at having to cut my workout short and getting blood on my shorts. Tough stain to get out.

To make a short story even longer, the next 48 hours were spent ripping off kleenex and bandaids from the sticky open wound, being denied through long wait times, closure, and lack of evening doctors the application of stitches, and eventual self-medication.

It's been nearly a week now and still no stitches, but I think I've passed the gangrene hazard. All this to the same thumb that did eventually get stitches after slicing too fully a piece of cheese. Somewhat like Hansel & Gretel only more morbid, I've started leaving a trail of Anne everywhere I go.