Yesterday I managed once again to be on the receiving end of a wound of unknown origin. Random injuries are a daily thing for me. If I haven’t successfully hurt myself, broken something, or stained a piece of clothing, I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. I am currently in possession of the aforementioned cut (a scratch embedded in the fleshy part of my palm, rendering the comfort of Bandaids impractical), as well as at least four others. I won’t catalogue them for you (because who wants to read a list of cuts, bangs, bruises, and abrasions?), but in the interest of full disclosure I’ll admit that two shirts have also been harmed in the making of this weekend: one last night, splattered by spaghetti sauce (another good reason I don’t often cook) and the second this morning, dipped into my peanut butter toast breakfast.

I’ve resigned myself to this fate and I can’t say it even bothers me all that much, once the initial pain and throbbing reminders are doused by time, medicine, or — in the case of the stained clothing — laundry detergent. There are even a few advantages to a life of accident pronness. (Another thing I’m prone to doing: creating new words.) For one thing, there’s hope that my minor daily pains are a hedge against occasional catastrophic ones. This may be flawed logic — after all, one of my first actions upon this Earth was to undergo open-heart surgery — but I’m optimistic. Other advantages include the bonding that occurs when swapping tales of injuries past, and ever-increasing background knowledge for my writing. Flimsy, yes. But they’re all I’ve got, and since I’ve had this penchant for accidental pain for over thirty years, I’ve learned to appreciate the good points and try not to wonder about tomorrow.