Last week while hike/jogging (an activity I would now not recommend) with my rat-dog Oliver, I fell and hurt my right arm pretty badly.

Let me rephrase that.

Last week, an idiot adult with an untrained dog who cannot walk in a straight line, decided to run up a rocky hill, and unsurprisingly fell when her dog saw a bird, got excited, and tripped her. This resulted in a fucked up right arm that required 8 stitches. That idiot was me.

I have only run a couple of times in the last 10 years, once I hurt my ankle on a slippery netball court, and most recently, the Arm-ageddin. In conclusion, I should not run. No one should. Running = Death.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

In all seriousness, hurting myself was a real shock to the system. So shocking in-fact that at first, I did not realize how bad the situation was.

I managed to trip at a spot at Fryman Canyon that was exactly the furthest away mid-point from my car and cell phone reception. What a genius.

Thankfully I tripped and fell in front of about 7 people. All of whom rushed to my aide. It actually makes me a little bit emotional thinking about how people can just be nice and help you when you’re covered in dirt and blood, but more on that in a moment.

Covered in my own blood, and steadily bleeding more, I drove myself to the office first, dropped said rat-dog, called insurance to figure out where I was allowed to go (thanks America) and then drove myself to Urgent care.

Despite the pain, the blood and the general sense of foreboding, I kept telling myself everything was fine and it was BUT A SCRATCH. Sobbing hysterically and hyperventilating, as blood drips onto your steering wheel is just a normal part of life right?

Within five minutes of sitting down with Doctor I was told, sorry babe, you’re shit out of luck. The Doc could see the fat layer through my cleaned up oozing gash. And apparently, that isn’t a good sign. I am scared of needles, so my immediate and totally normal reaction was to start vibrating from head to toe. Everything is fine. No stitches needed. I am good thanks.

Total sidebar to this story that maybe one of my medically inclined pals can enlighten me on. Before I sat down on the paper covered recliner to have the doctor inspect my pastrami sandwich elbow, the kind nurse weighed me and asked me my height.

Why?

It wasn’t like I was coming in for a check-up or some unknown illness. The point of my visit was very clear, as a trail of blood droplets (am I anemic?!) led from the chair I waited in, to the weighing machine, to the room where my new found doctor friends were like, AH! The source of your pain is this tomato sauce pasta dish that once was the side of your arm.

I have not hurt myself badly in a long time (well, physically anyway, after all what is this blog if not a collection of baggage-y stories) so I wasn’t really sure how to handle this situation totally. I am one of those people that has never broken a bone (touch wood), nor had stitches in the past. In fact the two major surgeries of my life were getting my tonsils out at age 11 and getting my wisdom teeth out at 19. I guess looking at those ages, I was a couple of years overdue for some needle stabbing.

I hate to make people uncomfortable so I go into joke telling mode: HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE ABOUT THE VEAL PARMIGIANA ELBOW GIRL? No? Okay I’ll just cry a bit more like a big ol’ baby. Is that cool? Thanks!

The point of this blog is to mainly find as many disgusting and visually repulsive food metaphors for my banged up arm as possible, but also to leave your day with this small uplifting tidbit:

The couple that helped me down the mountain were strangers to me. As I sobbed and cradled my raspberry jam burnt crumpet of an elbow, they distracted me by telling me about their lives and industry jobs. I could barely remember anything but one fact: where the guy half of the couple worked.

After the stitches and antibiotics had been dispensed, I felt bad that I had never gotten their contact info. BUT, with the power of social media and the small network that we call LA, I was able to find them, get their address, and send them a thank you card (that is winging its way there now).

My tumble SUCKED ass. But in a way, it was beautiful because it made me realize how many people were willing to lend a hand (because mine was useless) and it reminded me that when you hurt, there are still good people.

Thank you for reading my elbow recipe.

Paris