Tough As Nails

I am not too much of a pain baby. Although I like to do my fair share of whining and wailing over the smallest of physical discomforts, my display is really just that: a display. All for show. What better purpose, after all, is there for my old-fashioned monogrammed linen handkerchieves, than to affect the appearance of a long-suffering pain martyr? A delicate dabbing of the weeping eyes here, a soft swabbing of the flushed forehead there, and a general all-around billowy flapping and gentle waving of the small multi-purpose square of cloth does wonders. Plus there’s always the possibility of a dapper dashing gentleman retrieving the hanky when it escapes my weakened, pale fingertips and softly floats onto the tips of his highly polished, nattily spatted shoes.
Yesterday, however, I experienced something that challenged my tolerance for pain. Something that a pince-nez’d acting teacher would tell me I could recall for a “sense memory” exercise. I challenge you to guess what the source of my pain was. (This is an invitation for you to comment. Yes.) Please note that the pain was physical (although there was attendant emotional scarring).
Have fun discussing my pain. But please avoid using the word “booboo”. Because if you do, I will be forced to hurt you (which will not pain me in the least).