On Saturday, he and two buddies went mountain biking, and my husband, Jerry, slammed into a tree, cutting his ear and whacking his collarbone. He relayed all of this to me immediately afterward via phone on his way to tailgate with the same guys for the N.C. State game.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"It hurts like hell!" he said.

"Well, maybe you should get it checked out. Maybe you need stitches," I said.

It was stupid to even suggest stitches. My husband never, ever gets stitches. Hand caught in a motor? It'll be fine. Chainsaw mishap? Brush it off.

The only time he's ever gotten stitches was in an operating room after shoulder surgery. So if the surgeon puts them in - kind of a one-stop-shopping deal - that's fine. Otherwise, forget it. Stitches, apparently, are for wusses and babies and people who enjoy biding their time in emergency waiting rooms. I wouldn't know because I can't remember the last time I had a mishap that required stitches.

Frankly, it's my personal philosophy to stay away from activities that might result in stitches. And the hospital. And the police. Not necessarily in that order.

Anyway, the next morning, Jerry's talking to me and I really looked at him, and all I could see was the bloody stump of his earlobe.

"Your ear! My God!" I gasped.

"What? I told you."

"You're missing, like, 25 percent of it! It looks ... awful!"

"If you think that's bad, look at my collarbone," he said, pulling up his shirt.

The area was bruised and there was an odd lump on one side. "There's probably a break, but not a major one. I can still move my arm. I hit pretty hard. I think I blacked out for a minute."

"WHAT? Are you serious? What if you have a concussion?"

"What would they do, put a cast on my head?"

And this, my friends, is where you can see the major difference between men and women. Or, more specifically, between my husband and me.

If it had been me and my girlfriends, we'd have taken an immediate detour to an emergency room. Or at least an urgent care.

One of us would have the task of comforting, the other would be in charge of making calls, and the final friend would take on logistics - food, water, directions, insurance cards.

Actually, let's back that up. We wouldn't be in the woods in the first place. On bikes.

Belk, maybe. But I've never had a shopping injury this bad.