The Gym is a Dangerous Place

Yesterday I was at the gym working out. I had been using a 75 pound dumbell for squats. I had a couple of sets of arm weights left to do, but was done with squats so I attempted to put the 75 pounder back on the rack. I hoisted it up and dropped it into place. It bounced, caught my finger underneath, and slammed back down onto the rack. I grabbed my hurt finger with the other hand, thinking that it really hurt, but I could finish my workout in a few minutes when it stopped throbbing. I opened my hand to take a look at my finger and was a little frightened to see a hand full of blood. I looked around me for help, and saw a man who looked like he worked for the university and asked him for help. He later recalled that I walked up to him looking at him funny. I felt like I had been yelling for help, but I guess not. Anyway, to make a long story short, I got some help and Mark (who was at the gym at the same time but working out with a friend) drove me to the student center to get me fixed up. Frankie (short for Frankenstein) is the result.