I broke my elbow while looking for a comet the other night. Frolicking frozen on foot with friends, I entangled my legs with my pal Elizabeth's and went down fast and hard on the pavement. But it wasn't her fault. It was just a dumb accident. That said, Elizabeth can no longer appear in public without retribution. "I heard you broke Connie's arm," is what people are saying to her at the Stop and Shop.

I saw this blame game coming, and had there been no witnesses, I could have told people that I'd slipped on black ice. Since it was pitch black when I fell, I could even have claimed that it was black-on-black ice. Then most people wouldn't have cared about it:

"I don't know anyone who goofs around in the dark of night and slips on frozen pavement. So black-on-black ice doesn't affect me. People like Connie do this to themselves. Is anyone else feeling as self-actualized as I am?"

If it had gone down this way, Elizabeth would still be free to shop locally, which ironically is what the people who needled her out of town are always harping at everyone to do.

When I fell down that night, though my elbow seared with pain, it was the nausea that made me understand that I had broken my arm. Not wanting to ruin anyone's time, I stood up and brushed myself off. Brushing yourself off is code for "I couldn't possibly be hurt. Coat-smudge is my top priority right now."

Feeling a little crazy and registering vaguely the sweet and concerned "Are you okays?" coming from the mouths of my friends, I said I thought I'd be fine. 

"It hurts though," I said, "so I'm gonna turn around and find Bo.   Please keep going though or I'll be sad, okay?" They reluctantly agreed and Elizabeth and I turned back.

I was so relieved when my safety headlamp shone on Bo that I teared up in my mouth just a little. He was bringing up the rear, laughing with his friends. Bo is my husband and an orthopedic surgeon. I figured he would tap into my anguish in one or the other of those roles. Maybe even both.

"You're kidding, right?" he said when I told him that I had fallen, hurt my elbow and wanted to head back.

"She's not kidding," Elizabeth assured him. "She fell. It made a bad noise."

He inhaled through his closed teeth, "Ssssssss! Ouch! Sorry Sweetie!" And then, "But I still can't tell if you're kidding. You could just want to go home because you're cold."

At this point, I reached up with my good arm and pointed my headlamp straight down, witch-face style, only with overhead lighting.

"Okay, she's crying," he said to his friends. "I'm going with her." Then, to me softly, "I really thought you were kidding."

"It's okay," I said, relieved to have him on board. Then, cradling my throbbing arm, I turned and power-walked the half-mile or so back to the car, never looking back. Elizabeth was beside me all the way. When we got there, she asked, "Wait, where's Bo?"

"He probably had to pee," I said.

A few minutes later, he materialized. "Sorry, I had to pee," he said.