I Have A Fetish For Broken Bones

While the rest of America focused on swimmer Michael Phelps' finger-wagging after he won his 20th gold medal, I was interested in a different Olympics story. French gymnast Samir Ait Said first caught my eye when he shattered his tibia and fibula upon landing his vault during men's team qualification rounds.
After I read that this isn't his first injury — he also broke his leg before the 2012 Olympics — I fell in love.
Later, when the Games were over and Said was safely in the hospital, I cuddled up to my husband. "Tell me again," I asked him, as he stretched his right arm over his head to work out a soreness that remained more than a decade after he fractured it.
Patiently, he explained how once, in college, he flipped over the handlebars of his bike and broke his arm. I asked him to pause on details, no matter how mundane, like how he got to the hospital (a pizza delivery Good Samaritan), what position he fell in ("hands first," he says, wincing), and what happened to his bike (he doesn't know). I've heard the story countless times, and it never gets old.
At night, I fantasize that I was there.
I Have A Fetish For Broken Bones