Every year, my brother, whom I don't see nearly enough of, shows up at my mom's for the food and while some families have football viewing or playing traditions, and others sit around and play cards and tell gruesome hunting tales, and yet others sit around and peruse the dreaded Black Friday ads (idiots), my brother and I have our own tradition. We typically fight. Seriously. I know. I'm a damn hillbilly that lives in a more uptown home than the trailer in the woods I grew up in. I guess it brings me back to my childhood when we would get into knock down, drag out fist fights....Anyway, he always wins, but I can usually hurt him at least once before we call truce. Its our thing.
Well, yesterday I went and sat beside him on the couch before blessings were said. He was really nervous, not quite sure of what my next move would be. It was funny because the anticipation was clearly killing him. He finally just told me to make my move and get it over with. I wasn't going to move to soon, ya know? I was like one of those caged lions, just ready to pounce.
The asshole elbowed me. I wasn't ready for it, as I'm usually the one that gets the jump, but not this year. And it was so ON....I dove on top of him, and he was just trying to protect himself. I sent my fist flying, knowing I was going to connect with his bicep, when he had the GALL, the NERVE, to try to protect himself by throwing his arm up in the air and my knuckles connected alright. With his elbow. Let me tell you, I hurt myself. For REAL. I think I've broken one of those itty bitty bones that is located somewhere down in your hand, the one that runs from your pinkie finger? That one. My hand is swollen and my hubby has zero sympathy. Jerk.
His argument is that I'm getting too old to behave in such a way. He might be right, but doesn't he understand? It's tradition. Just like the Packers and Cowboys playing on Thanksgiving, and Black Friday, it just wouldn't be Thanksgiving without our annual fight.
Anyway, M is even now as we speak (or whatever) on his way to our cabin in the GA to hunt with a passel of friends for ten days and I have no idea how in the hell I'm supposed to drive my stick shift (it was my right hand). If it's still hurting on Monday, I guess I have to go to the doctor. I really hate going to the doctor (and it's not the insurance, we've got pretty good coverage). It seems like every time I go, it's because I've done something stupid, like the time I was trying to do a split and tore my hamstring (I had to prove I was more flexible than a six foot four idiot - Love you, E, in case you ever stumble across this) or the time I was stabbed (don't ask)....I'm really going to hate telling the doc how I hurt my hand. I'm trying to think of something to tell him, that would make sense with the injury without making me look like a complete jackass. Drawing a blank here. On the plus side, I could probably get a camo colored cast. That would be cool. Not sure the people at work ( a bunch of attorneys) would appreciate it, but who knows? It might make them lighten up a bit.
Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you truly thought about all the blessings in your lives and gave thanks. Peace out.
No comments:
Post a Comment