After some sober reflection on that title, it doesn’t come off quite as I had intended. Rest assured, I’m not talking about an STI. This post is, however, related to a health issue; specifically, a booboo on my finger.

We visited Rochester, NY recently. At this point in the conversation, everyone always asks ‘WHY?!”, but we had a fantastic trip. Not only was it an excuse to get away on a road trip, but our weekend included quality drunk time with great friends, a meal at an all-meat Brazilian restaurant, deep-fried food and craft beer served amidst the lilac trees at a festival in the park, some time on the shore of a surprisingly brisk beach located on Lake Ontario, and not inconsiderable shopping.

Sadly, upon returning home to empty out my toiletries bag, I was shocked to discover that I had packed my razor in a different compartment than usual.

“Shocked” might seem like a strong word to use here…until you realize I only discovered the fact by reaching quickly in to grab something else only to reel back in pain at having sliced open the tip of my index with not one, not two, but three blades. Thanks, Gillette.

Anyway, after much cussing and repeated attempts to secure the flap with a BandAid, I managed to staunch the bleeding. I wiped the blood from the walls and went to bed, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be going to the ER for stitches.

Next day, I was back at the gym for a class, but it didn’t take long before I learned that the rhythmic clapping that goes along with group fitness could easily cause discomfort.

Okay, pain.

Okay, opening of a wound that, in all likelihood, probably should have had stitches.

But I’m nothing if not stubborn… so I applied more BandAids and went about my business. I was able to manage a modified clap in classes over the next few days. Clapping left over right instead of my usual right over left. But nothing I was doing was making any real noise.

It was terribly unsatisfying not to be able to produce my normally thunderous clap.

A week went by…9 days…eleven. And the wound felt better, but not perfect. And I had grown used to my unimpressive clap. So when, midway through a BodyJam class two weeks to the day after my injury, I brought my hands together with a thwack, I actually reeled at the unexpected volume of my clap. My hands were healed. My clap was back.

I smiled and danced harder. It was a good day.


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