Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones…
There is a specific kind of "imposter syndrome" that comes with reaching adulthood with your skeletal system entirely intact. I’m talking about those of us who have never spent an afternoon in an ER waiting room, never felt the sickening pop of a fracture, and—most importantly—never got to experience the social peak of the elementary school playground: The Cast. If you’re a fellow member of the "Never Broken a Bone" club, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Here is a tribute to all the milestones we missed out on.
In the third grade, a neon pink or lime green cast wasn't just a medical necessity; it was a high-fashion statement. It was a physical manifestation of your bravery. I spent my childhood watching classmates get "cool" signatures and inside jokes Sharpied onto their fiberglass shells, while I sat there with my boring, functional, un-signed skin. I’ll never know the satisfaction of having my best friend sign their name in bubble letters over my ulna. Or what about when someone broke their dominant hand and got a "scribe"? For two weeks, they became a local celebrity who didn't have to take their own notes or finish the spelling test. They just sat there, looking weary and heroic, while a peer did the heavy lifting. I spent those years taking notes vigorously with two fully functioning hands, like a commoner. Where was my administrative assistant? Plus, every broken bone comes with a story. Sometimes it’s a "heroic sports injury", and yes, if you’re wondering, falling off the monkey bars counts. Sometimes it’s a "clumsy legend" tale, like tripping over a stray Lego. But even if your reason for injury is embarrassing, it will eventually turn into excellent fodder for dinner parties, possibly with a little dressing up and some careful embroidery of the truth.
For those of us who have never broken anything, our closest brush with medical drama is usually a "really bad bruise" or a "stubbed toe that felt like it might be broken but definitely wasn't." It’s hard to command a room with the story of the time you almost fell but then regained your balance. Now, to be fair, this is perhaps the one part I don't mind missing. I’ve watched friends try to maneuver a coat hanger or a ruler down the side of a cast to reach a phantom itch three inches deep. It looked like a special kind of torture. I’ll take my "boring" lack of fractures if it means I can scratch my own arm whenever I want. Luxury.
But there’s a weirdly superstitious feeling about being an adult who hasn't broken a bone. Every time I trip on a curb, there’s a split second where I think, Is this it? Is today the day I finally get my cast? But until then, I’ll keep walking around with my 206 original, un-mended pieces, feeling slightly left out of the Secret Society of the ER, but grateful that I can still write my own name and butter my own toast. Are you, dear reader, a member of the Never Broken club, or do you have a signature-covered cast hidden in your attic somewhere?
Jennifer