I have discovered that having a visible injury is a real attention getter, almost like walking a new puppy, minus the oohing and aahing. Maybe if I had one of those nifty hot pink casts, I would get the "Ooh, what a pretty cast!" comments. Then again, maybe not...

Instead, my heavily fortified hand and wrist generates the more common "What happened to your hand/wrist/arm?" question from both friends and strangers. Telling them that I broke the 5th metacarpal is usually a bit too clinical and just not good enough. Folks want to know how I broke it and most are expecting a pretty good story, especially those that know me well. There is an odd almost eager anticipation of a pretty good bicycle or motorcycle crash story. Not that I have a habit of crashing... Well, okay, I have had a couple of good bicycle get-offs in recent years, but nothing resulting in broken bones. A few have asked in jest -- or at least I hope in jest -- whether or not I decked my husband. For the record, my husband may have his moments, but for the most part he is a sweetheart. Decking him would be highly inappropriate, wrong, and just plain mean.

So how did I break my hand? Well, it was like this... I was on my Ducati enjoying a most excellent open track day at Laguna Seca Raceway. I was feeling great! No one could catch me! As I entered the Corkscrew, I threw the bike hard to the left and then made the quick transition to the right. What a rush! And then disaster! At that very moment, a wild turkey leapt out in front of me. In an effort to avoid the little gobbler, I made the unfortunate mistake of grabbing the front brake. Very bad idea. The bike stood up and off I went in a most impressive high side, my hand taking the first hit as my body returned to the ground. Ouch! Poor bike, poor hand, happy turkey.

Did that really happen? Well, not exactly. But the fact of the matter is that the true story is both boring and causes some folks to get a bit squeamish. And those that have heard both stories, overwhelmingly prefer the first. You decide, but remember, you have been warned. The slightly embellished real story...

So I thought I was safe in the confines of my own home. Without warning, a stackable desk chair suddenly appeared in front of me, grabbed my hand and then tossed me to the ground while my hand remained attached to the chair, firmly wedged between the backrest and the armrest until it literally snapped free. Yes, snapped. It was a freak accident and entirely unexciting except for a couple of kittens who were tittering in the corner while I did my best to maintain composure. Did I really catch a glimpse of an outstretched paw as I went down? And to think that I was worried about them tearing up the furniture. Who would have thought that the little monsters would also be a threat to my well-being.

So that is the embarrassing truth -- I was attacked by a killer chair with the help of a couple of rambunctious kittens. As for the kittens who were unnamed at the time of the accident, I have seriously considered naming them after two of my doctors, or perhaps Pin1 and Pin2 for the pins that now keep the broken bone intact as it heals. But then I might forever be forced to repeat this story when asked how I came about naming the kitties....