When out walking Maggie last night in the dark and the rain I stepped on a rock and went over on my ankle, spraining it quite badly and painfully. Truth be told, it hurts like a son of a bitch!! Now I have broken this particular ankle 4 times in my life so am quite familiar with this event. After running the routine tests and establishing that it was not, in fact broken, I picked myself off up the pavement and stumbled back home. I iced, I elevated, I cried, and I contemplated calling the one person who lives relatively near me, who owns a car, and who, most importantly, keeps a supply of good painkillers at the ready. But I didn’t call. I sucked it up, made do with my measly Ultra-Tylenols and felt sorry for myself. The reason I didn’t call? Well, that would be because the person with the good drugs happens to be the same person who is the cause of my floopies and with whom I have a date on Sunday for a hike. The thought of calling him thereby allowing him to see me looking ever so slightly less than glamorous, and very vulnerable and with my apartment maybe not in the best shape that it’s been in in its life, was just too much for me to bear. I couldn’t do it. Also, making that call would alert him to the fact that I am injured and that maybe we shouldn’t go for a hike on Sunday. That won’t work for me, either. I plan on being in fighting shape come Sunday, or maybe I’ll suggest a gentle hike, like one with no hills or uneven surfaces ...
And I have yet to mention the really attractive and PAINFUL bruise on my hip, which took the brunt of my fall after my bloody ankle gave out. I am sure by Sunday that it will be all sorts of attractive colours.
The things we do for boys, eh?
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