Diary of an Aspiring New Yorker: August 25th, 2008

How I broke Myself

I'd like to say that I was goaded into the backflip - and in fact I do when I am telling the story over cocktails - but the truth is that I was the only one really egging me on. It's been three months now and I have healed. I can type again and I have been free of the cast for a month now, so I can admit my own fault.

Like most people, I like to win. Only I really really like to win. To me a casual card game is an oxymoron, like a casual clan war. Same with, say, Monopoly. When I play Monopoly, I play until the game is finished. The fact that I own every property on the board does not mean the game is over. If you are running low on money, I will lend you some so I can continue to watch you lose.

The same general principle holds true in sports. If there were a way I could still legitimately play in little league, I would do it.

Since people won't ever play games with me, I am forced to invent my own new ones. Treadmill racing involves setting your own running speed half a notch higher than the person running next to you. If you then start a conversation it forces the other person, your opponent, to look at you - and thus see you are going faster - and emphasizes that going faster is so easy that you can start a conversation while you are running.

My point here is that I am stupidly competitive, so three months ago, when I was running a workshop at a high school health fair in Staten Island, I couldn't bear to see a couple of high school cheerleaders jumping off of a springboard when I knew that I could maybe do that better, or maybe backwards.

The backwards thing turned out to be my downfall. I have some small amount of gymnastic training, so I managed a few front flips. Then one of the boys by the side of the mat - there were a number of them observing the cheerleaders and, less enthusiastically, me - asked if I could do a backflip off the board.

Here's the simple moral of my tale: showing off to high school kids isn't worth it.

In my defense, I landed the first one.

"Hold on," I said. "I'm pretty sure I can do that better."

For some reason, there was no nurse at the health fair. Nor was there ice. Someone did find a band-aid, which was useful because my thumbnail pierced the top of my left forearm when my wrist snapped backwards with a loud crack.

I sat and waited for some sort of medical attention next to dioramas explaining how bulimia affects a person, how ebola breakouts occur, and why even one cigarette will lead you down a road that can only end in a hard addiction to crack. It struck me that a more pragmatic fair might have ignored the threat of ebola in favor of some simple instructions on how to set a bone.

When I arrived in the emergency room (after a one-hour cab ride out of Staten Island punctuated by a brief bar stop for a palliative shot of whisky), a nurse was fending off a frustrated old man who had been sitting there for a number of hours.

"This place is the worst hospital in the city," the old man yelled at the nurse as I came in.

"I send patients to the doctor according to the urgency of their situation," she said, then turned to me and smiled "how are you dear?"

I looked at her. "A little broken," I said.

"Oh my that wrist looks awful. Sit down and let's see if we can't get someone to see you right away."

The old man glared at me and I looked back somewhat bashfully. I clearly had the nurse's sympathy, which can mean the difference between an ER wait of one hour or eight. And she was clearly pissed off at the old man.

In the nightmarishly boring world of a hospital ER without any patients who are really emergency cases, there are winners and losers and I felt guilty that this old man was going to have to wait longer because I arrived. But there was also second feeling: that swelling of adrenaline and pride that comes when you know you are about to enter a competition you can't help but win.