Were I a better liar, I'd consider developing a fictional explanation for this morning's wrist injury, one that was plausible yet also allowed me to retain some dignity. Having a tough time opening that too tightly-closed jar of body scrub, maybe, or swinging my bag over my shoulder at an awkward angle. But because I'm such a poor dissembler, I'll probably have to come clean from the start: I harmed myself while brushing my teeth too hard, silently but slit-eyedly fuming about my hatred of down pillows.