Luckily, I was able to stop and backpedal, therefore freeing the aforementioned pant. But it did hurt as the trapped hem strangled my ankle as the wheels spun away mercilessly. There was no harm done to my ankle other than "Ouch!", but from now on, I shall spin in shorts, thankyouverymuch.
It seems that I am becoming accident-prone in my old age.
Speaking of which:
"So," says my co-worker as he stares at my splinted finger. "What's up with that finger?"
"Broken," I say, and continue refilling my coffee mug.
"How did that happen?" he asks.
"Fencing," I reply.
"You mean, someone whacked you in the finger with a sword?"
"Did it hurt?" he says.
"Well, I was so hyped up in adrenaline that I didn't really notice. I mean, it hurt at the time, but not so much that I didn't fight in the tournament anyway. Next day, though, it hurt like a bitch."
"Nah, that's adrenaline for you" I say. "And our team won, so it's okay. Yay us!"
"Wow," he says. "I bet that's a trophy you will remember forever."
"Nah," I say. "There was no tropy. We don't get those."
"A certificate then?"
"So what do you get?" he says.
"Bragging rights." I say, beaming.
"And a broken finger," he adds. "You're insane."
"And you sound like my orthopod and my two ex-husbands. Do you know where the Splenda went?"
At that point he shakes his head in disbelief, and walks away.
It was a good way to start my day. Anything else, was icing on the cake.
My job here is done.