“We’ll have a jog in place contest. Whoever stops first gets to scrub both toilets.”
“It’s a deal.”
Two minutes later I give up, telling myself it’s the noble thing to do. Let Carrie beat me at a jog in place contest, and save her from scrubbing the toilets.
But really, it’s because I’m out of shape. It’s winter, and the last time I tried to go skateboarding I didn’t even get on the board and slipped and fell about five feet while judging the slickness of the skatepark.
I usually take pictures of my more significant wounds, but I was ashamed of this one because it wasn’t strictly a skateboarding accident, and honestly, I wasn’t thinking about how cool the wound looked, I was thinking about if I had ruptured some internal organs, and thinking about going to a hospital.
The wound made Carrie gag because you could see my fat through the gash. It was proof at least that there is indeed some fat on my body, or at that moment, peaking out. Most people would rush to the hospital, as I should have, but we have so little trust in our healthcare system that we feel our chances of recovering from a significant health incident are better by sticking around at home.
I’m all healed up now, but my calf muscles are screaming in soreness from the jog in place contest. This reminds me that before going down to California for Christmas, I better get in shape because my brothers and I will be hitting the local parks together.
What would it take for you to go to the hospital?