Last weekend, I broke my little finger. It's pretty silly and not that serious, but it has me thinking about the nature of fragility.

My close friends are closing this tab right now, like, "Enough about the pinky!" Which, fair. Sally forth, check your email for new DSW coupons.

I broke my finger at the gym, unfortunately not doing anything cool. Moments before, I was doing something cool, deadlifting 175 pounds. I am an extremely amateur powerlifting hobbyist in my spare time. I have never been a sports person, but lifting weights and barbells is my favorite way to isolate from the world and tap into my European peasant roots. At the end of the day, I am just a short and stout babcia lifting sacks of grain.

I caught my finger in an adjustable weight bench, and I can't really explain how. All I know is that it fell down quickly and clicked into place... with my finger in it. At that point, I rose out of my body and silently released the peg and my hand. Side note that since crushing my finger without making a peep, my respect for performative gym grunters is at an all-time low.

I assessed my trembling, increasingly purple hand in the locker room. I thought, "I got this, no worries!" and decided to drive to urgent care. In the car, I started in on some mix of heavy breathing and hysterical crying. I called my husband to come get me as the last bit of independence evaporated.

The nurse asked my pain level, to which I replied, "I can't tell if I'm in pain or panicking." To which he replied, "Probably both," and squeezed my bare leg, which I don't think was necessary, but I digress. We had to go to another urgent care for an X-ray, which confirmed that sucker was broken. Another set of X-rays on Monday with an orthopedist showed that it's fractured in a splintery shape on the side and clean across the second pinky bone (technical term).

If you've ever broken a digit, you know there's not much to be done. I'm in a splint. The break is stable, and my finger will heal up in about a month. In the tapestry of life, it's an annoying snag. I said on Instagram that the whole thing feels overly dramatic, like when Michael Scott on "The Office" burned his foot on a George Foreman grill.

The bigger sobering bucket of water came with the thoughts that flew through my head in the aftermath. I had taken this tiny phalange for granted. And now?

1. Could I lift weights at the end of a long day with the sound of 1997 divorced dad rock pounding in my earbuds?

2. Could I write???

The answer to both has turned out to be yes. The ortho put me in a smaller splint than urgent care, a huge relief that allowed me to type. I've been back to the gym on a modified plan. That 200-pound deadlift will have to wait, but that's OK.

The deeper, more unsettling answer is that every bone and cell in our bodies is temporary, at peril each day we exist. What if I crushed my whole hand? What if I stepped off a curb and got hit by one of those too-big Ford trucks? What if I developed some illness with designs on slowly eating my insides? What if, what if, what if? I would persevere and adjust, I suppose, like so many brilliant people do along the spectrum of bodily differences.

But being down a finger has made me appreciate the other nine and what they can do. I don't think it's a coincidence that after grilling my proverbial foot, I was overcome with a blast of creativity, an urge to pick up projects I'd let languish, an almost pathological desire to do the big things I want to do in life. Maybe it's the prescription-strength ibuprofen, but I am feeling mentally sharp and optimistic, almost stupidly so. Like there's no other choice but to use every gift.

The broken pinky was an omen, maybe, a portend, a tiny tap on the window of life. Like, hey: None of this lasts forever. Wake up. Are you up?

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: Jackson Simmer at Unsplash