While we were all sitting around the dinner table celebrating my Dad's birthday last month, Wyatt posed a question.
He put down his fork and, very seriously I might add, looked his Grandpa straight in the eyes and said "What is the most life-threatening thing that has ever happened to you?".
After my Dad finished telling a jaw-dropping tale of how he didn't get on an airplane that ended up crashing, Wyatt turned to the rest of us and demanded we share our most earth-shattering, scary or exciting tales. The little adrenaline junkie.
So we sat around the table, sharing stories and digesting dinner as we listened to each other. Wyatt's eyes were lit up like a Christmas Tree as he took it all in. After we were done, Dad leaned over to his youngest grandson and asked him why he wanted to know all of which we had already shared.
"Because nothing exciting ever happens to me."
With that, a grin spread across my Dad's face and he and I both knew what he would tell Wyatt.
"Someone else said the exact, same thing to me a long time ago."
Yes, it's true. I remember being a young lady and pestering my Dad with all of my philosophical-type questions (as I regularly did as an attempt to appear intelligent in his eyes, or some such thing). One of which weighed heavily on my mind at the time was why was my life so ordinary? And what could that possibly mean? Where was the drama that seemed to follow people I knew? Where was the excitement?
My Dad calmly explained to me that I need not question these things. I should enjoy life. Enjoy the ride. He couldn't have been more right.
Which brings me to my current dilemma. My injury.
Although my finger feels much better (exhibit A: typing is obviously not as difficult as I thought it would be) and my "splint" is nothing more than an annoyance at this point, I'm a little disappointed in my fracture. You see, I've never broken a bone before. Ever. And I was expecting a little more excitement over said "fracture" by other people.
For example, I went on a field trip with 60-some 2nd-graders and I thought they, if anybody, would find my finger fascinating. Nope. As soon as they heard how I did it, they could care less. Never mind Mrs. Carrie, on to flicking boogers into the hair of the girl sitting on the bus in front of me and making faces at the other cars on the highway!
See what kind of competition I was up against?
Later that night, while attending the swanky art opening of my fabulous brother (with wine, and cheese and yummy h'ors d'vours - oh and his beautiful new paintings), my finger was again the topic of lots of small talk with virtual strangers.
I found myself saying things like "oh, it's just a hazard of my job". At which point, they would ask me what my job was and I'd have to explain that I don't really have one, I'm just a mom.
I also tried convincing a handsome young man that I hurt my finger playing goalie in a street hockey game.
He didn't believe me.
If it weren't for my brother's lovely girlfriend, the entire night would have been depressing. For after hearing my tales of woe regarding my injury, she gave me the best piece of advice ever.
"Tell them you were bitten by an alligator."
Eureka! That's it!
While I was wrestling alligators . . .