Them bones, them bones, them dried bones

Honestly it’s a miracle I haven’t broken bones before now.
DH calls me “graceful” on a regular basis. He says it in that wonderfully sexy way with that wonderfully sexy smile covering his real meaning of “gee, dear, I can’t believe you had a problem walking and talking at the same time.” So when people see us together and I trip and he says I’m so graceful and I shoot him the bird, they don’t quite get it, but he and I totally understand each other.
There’s the truth.
I really can’t walk and talk or chew gum or think happy thoughts at the same time.
When I walk, I have to pay attention. To the road. Or my feet. Or the cars coming my way. Whatever. I’m the biggest clutz I know.
So it’s surprising, really, that I’ve never suffered the agony of broken bones before.
Now that I have, I have this awesome story to go along with the nasty scars. (Italian doctors don’t care about cosmetic stitches. The US doctor said it looked like they used kite string to stitch me up.)
How many people can say they were taking a group of kids back to the bathrooms at the Coliseum, talking about how many ghosts there must be in the place where so many died when, BOOM, down the stairs she fell resulting in a broken ankle and tibia and six weeks of bed rest, two surgeries (one in Italy!) and physical therapy?
One day this will all go in a book. For now I’m focusing on my “she sees dead people” book. It’ll be interesting to see where it goes.
Something new I learned today: Hydrocodone makes me sleepy. Its sister OXY just wakes me up. Bummer.

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