There's some fatal flaw in my chemistry that makes me repel against pain and assert a fierce sense of independence when I've been hurt or just been through a surgical procedure.
A few years ago I fell while on campus and broke my elbow, face and my front tooth. Even though I couldn't raise my right arm above my shoulders I still insisted on washing my own hair. Forty minutes later I had lathered up one side of my head and rinsed it out figuring that was good enough. I drove myself to work, blatantly ignoring the hands "at ten and two" rule that all good drivers follow and ran the cash register by using my left arm and asking people to bag their own designer impostor shoes. I made it work and therefore cemented my stubborn streak in place.
However, this morning when I decided I wanted to make pancakes I refused to let Harry help me. I grabbed the mix, the milk (only slightly expired) and an egg. Turning from the fridge I felt the egg fly from my hands as if it had decided to reclaim its birthright and land on the floor in a squishy yellow streak.
When Harry came running in a few seconds later he looked at me, calmly greasing up the griddle, and then to the eggy streak in the floor. Silently he began cleaning up my mess and then took over the pancake making festivities, slowly ushering me to the table and presenting me with first a happy face pancake man (I ate his eyes first) and a heart.
The moral of the story?
Don't try to make pancakes when you're hopped up on pain killers as you can accidentally egg your own house.