This afternoon, I reached into my car with my right hand, just trying to grab something off the passenger seat. As I leaned in, my left hand bumped against the top edge of the side mirror—just a light tap, really. But the angle pushed the back of my hand hard enough to split the skin. I looked down and saw a perfect “U” shape carved into my flesh. It didn’t even hurt at first, just stunned me. I’m 71, and the skin on the backs of my hands is thin now. One wrong move, and suddenly I’m bleeding in my driveway.
I ended up needing six stitches. The doctor said it was a clean split, but when I looked at it later, I couldn’t help but laugh—it looked exactly like I’d been bitten by a toddler with braces. Sharp, oddly symmetrical, and weirdly personal. I joked about it to the nurse, who didn’t laugh, but I think she wanted to. It’s strange how something so minor can feel so dramatic when you’re older. I used to bounce back from scrapes. Now I count stitches and avoid mirrors like they’re booby traps.
I didn’t take pictures—too gory, and frankly, I didn’t want to see it again. But I keep replaying the moment in my head. It was such an ordinary gesture, reaching into the car, something I’ve done a thousand times. And yet, this time, it turned into a mini medical emergency. It’s a reminder that aging sneaks up on you in the smallest ways. Not with grand declarations, but with quiet betrayals—like your skin giving out before your reflexes do.
I’ve always prided myself on being active, careful, aware. But this incident made me realize how quickly things can change. One slip, one bump, and you’re sitting in urgent care wondering how a car mirror became your nemesis. It’s humbling. And it makes me think about all the little things I take for granted—like the strength of my skin, the steadiness of my hands, the simple act of reaching. None of it is guaranteed anymore.
Still, I’m grateful it wasn’t worse. Six stitches, a few days of soreness, and a funny story to tell. I’ll heal. But I’ll also be more cautious. Maybe I’ll start wearing gloves. Maybe I’ll slow down. Or maybe I’ll just keep laughing at the absurdity of it all. Because if you can’t find humor in a toddler-shaped wound from a car mirror, what can you laugh at? Life’s strange like that—painful, ridiculous, and oddly poetic.
So here I am, stitched up and slightly wiser, nursing my hand and my pride. No banana today—mild allergy, long story—but plenty of reflection. Literally. That mirror taught me something. Not just about aging, but about how even the most mundane moments can leave a mark. And sometimes, those marks look like a bite from a tiny, metal-jawed toddler. Go figure.
