On Saturday, I learned my pants are stronger than my knees. While herding very post-party friends back to the designated car, my left foot snagged in a pothole; the remainder of the night was spent deciding whether to limp on a sprained left ankle or a dripping right knee staunched with a torn-off section of a paper bag that had contained my breakfast scone.
Project: learn how to get bloodstains out of dress pants. These pants are magical; although my right knee is still a scab with bits of paper bag embedded in it (my knee bled through the bag, and touching the scab too much right now opens it up again), the pinstriped dress pants I wore to Suzanne's graduation show absolutely no signs of wear. This is a better track record than what my blue jeans have.
I wonder how I would react to actually being injured. Multiple-broken-bones severity, something I can't just brush up, ignore, and walk away from. (Then again, it takes a lot to keep me from walking away from something. Even a car crash didn't do it.) I hope I never have to find out, but it's something that I honestly don't know, though I may have caught a glimpse when the RSI was at its peak.
Hm. Must take care of self.
Must also visit dry-cleaner.