The first rule about embarrassingly obtained injuries is: you don't talk about embarrassingly obtained injuries!

Ok, so John didn't win our latest round of husband boxing...nor did I get in a gritty bar fight...nor did I even lose control of some ridiculous amount of weight I was attempting to hoist at the gym. No, the real culprit for this little beauty is far more embarrassing: a general lack of grace or cat-like reflexes. Not that I've ever been accused of having said qualities, but they certainly would help me to look a little less like a Judo class' sparring dummy.

The other culprit, you see, is my job. Which I love dearly, don't get me wrong. It's just that I need to learn how to navigate the inherent dangers a little better. For those who don't know, I'm one of those little guys you see scurrying about underneath you when your plane pulls into it's destination. I "download" (read "toss") your incoming bags, "upload" (read "heave") your outgoing bags , and "push out" ( read "drive a $40 million aircraft via a tow-bar attatched to a golf cart on steriods") your plane from its gate so that it can taxi out onto the runway safely. I'm what they call a Ramp Agent.

Part of a Ramp Agent's duties also include driving your incoming bags to a place where they can be put onto a conveyor belt that magically delivers them to you, the passenger, at Baggage Claim. This job in particular is both more simple, and more complicated than it would seem. Simple, because you're really just tossing bags onto a moving belt from a stationary cart. Complicated because it's very easy to jam the system, and the conveyor is filled with delicate sensors that attempt to prevent such an occurrence. If any jam-like conditions are found to exist...WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!...an alarm goes off. Bags piling atop one another like methed-out party tweakers at a clothing optional pool party? WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Bags too close together? WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Bag riding along with too high of a profile? WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Accidentally fart a little too close to one of the sensors? WOO...well, you get the idea.

I tell you all this because, in the event of an alarm, one has to crawl down into the system and fix said problem. Which is made more fun, because the crawl space is something even a petite dwarf would have trouble navigating. So a couple days ago I had just finished loading the last bag onto the belt, and then...

System Alarm: WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!

Me: "Fuck."

Thus it was time to traverse the mouse trap to try and fix the problem. I couldn't get in via the normal rolling door, so I had to crawl in from the side that you would normally huddle around as you wait to pounce on your bag, should it shoot out. I had another flight waiting for me, so I was in a hurry...and irritated at this (self-caused) delay to getting to it. Hastily, I ape-walked my way into the tunnel to try and find the cause of the problem. But the door on that side wouldn't open either.

Me: "FUCK!"

It's now that I should mention that I always wear a baseball-cap type hat at work to keep the sun off my noggin. I wear it pulled down kinda low, so that the brim shields my eyes from bright light of day. The brim thus blocks my view of anything above eyebrow level. Including the big, concrete support braces that horizontally line the ceiling of the tiny corridor I was crawling in.

My head (upon swiftly meeting said concrete structure): "BAM!"

Me: "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!!"

After the sparkly things had cleared from my eyes, I picked myself up off the belt. Gathering the sunglasses that had come out of my shirt pocket, I felt a trickle of something on my brow. I rose my forearm to my forehead. Yup, blood. Goody. I rushed-albeit a bit more carefully this time-the rest of the way up the belt so I could let the Baggage Rep know that I couldn't find the source of the problem.

Our Bag Rep is this really sweet, and totally flaming, 40-something guy from somewhere in the south. I rushed over to let him know to call my supervisor so he could see about fixing the problem with the belt system. I also vaguely mentioned smacking my melon in a totally no-big-deal-but-kinda-funny-to-share sort of way.

Him: "Ok, sure. I'll go ahead and...YAA! YUU! YOU'RE BLEEDING!"

Me: "I know, I know...I'm fine...do me a favor and please call the supe so he can fix the belt?"

I really didn't want my head thing to be a big issue. I was totally pissed at myself for not paying attention, and totally embarrassed too. I really didn't want too much of anyone to know about it, if it could be helped. I'd rather just hide it under my hat and sneak it by every...

Him (on his radio, sounding panicked): "Ramp supe, we need you to come see about the belt, it ain't workin'...and we have an injury here!"

Great. So much for that idea.

So everyone found out, and I had to tell them how it happened, and for the next few days I got to hear "Don't hit your head on that *snicker*" in just about every situation. So my head's bruised, my ego a little more so, and I think I learned a valuable lesson: hide your embarrassing wounds from excitable co-workers.

Oh, and be more careful around head-level things that are made of a material more impact resistant than your skull.