If you've read my bio (What?! You haven't read my bio? *gasp* Well you should) then you know that I live somewhere in the sweet, sultry south. Let me tell you something about living in the south: it does NOT snow here.
Okay, so it does. On occasion. RARELY. It snows here. We might get one short lived flurry every winter. We hardly ever get any substantial amount of snow here. It might snow a few inches once every 10 years or so (yes, really).
As a result I love snow and I'm terrified of driving in it. So I simply do what pretty much everyone else around here does and I don't leave my house until the snow melts. It snowed at the beginning of this month. It snowed A LOT.
I love snow. It's fabulous. You know what I don't love? ICE. Stupid, stupid ice!
In the middle of the night, following this beautiful and rare snowfall, it began to sleet. By morning the entire world was encased in ice. It was beautiful, shimmering stuff. The soft, fluffy snow was now trapped beneath a thick layer of frosted glass.
After three days of being stuck inside I brilliantly decided that my driveway looked clear enough to walk down. I could take the dog on a walk! YAY!
Not yay. My driveway was covered in a sheet of black ice. I went down--HARD. The dog went down too. I decided since we were already down the hill that is my driveway, we should continue our walk. Bad idea. The sidewalks were covered in ice. It was like skating. I finally gave up and returned home.
Except I couldn't get back up the hill. I fell down three more times. The last time I heard something cur-runch. It was really a sickening sound. I yelled out in pain. My dog whimpered. I think he knew I had hurt myself.
My hand was on fire. And it was swelling. I quickly yanked my glove off and shoved it in my pocket. I tried to get back up the hill. I fell again. My hand was huge and turning purple.
I decided it was time to give up whatever pride or dignity I had walked out my door with. Clearly I was going to be forced to crawl up my own driveway on all fours. I had no choice. I couldn't gain purchase. I kept slipping. So did the poor dog.
So the dog and I made our way (both crawling) up the hill next to the driveway and into the house. I realized I could not get my car out of the driveway (too much ice). I also realized that my hand was twice the size it should be. I've broken bones before. I just knew I'd broken something.
Sure enough, several hours and a trip to the ER later, my hand was in a brace and it was confirmed that I had broken two metacarpals and re-fractured a several years healed break in my wrist. How did I get the break in my wrist the first time? I am so glad you asked! There was an ice storm in 2002 and I fell down on the way to a college final. Snap. Crack. Broken wrist. Lovely.
That ladies and gentlemen is why I hate ice.
What did you say? How am I typing this? One-handed. Boo yeah! Because that's how I roll.