Every day, it’s the same routine. I catch the Red line, and sit in the last car because it’s closest to the escalator. Then I bounce up the escalator, and traipse down to exit. It gives me about eight minutes of constant motion in the morning. Good stuff. Typically, I don’t put on my glasses until I get to work, forgetting to actually put them on until around 10:30.
The reason I don’t wear my glasses until I get to work, is because I have astigmatism, and for some reason, my glasses fuck with my depth perception (I think that’s what it is) so wearing them, I have problems judging inclines, uneven ground, declines and steps.
I was looking sexy. I had on my white linen pants, a canary yellow tube top, and a white linen overshirt. The glasses stayed on (because, you know, I’m getting my “sexy bookworm” look on), I power walked up the steps, and I was in such a good mood, basking in all my sexiness, I went down a little faster than usual. And when I was almost at the bottom, I misjudged a step, stumbled forward, rolled BOTH ankles, and went down.
If you read anything I write for any period of time, my “fall stories are the stuff of legend. My favorite is when I was taken out by a rogue pothole in front of Club Utopia on Bourbon St. These stories all end with me popping back up in a fit of laughter. So naturally, I tried to pop right back up and my ankles said “AW! HELL! NAW!”
I was already hurt and shaken up, and the pain in my ankles when I attempted to get back up was totally dull and strange. So I cried, partially out of pain, mostly out of frustration. Okay, mostly out of pain. That shit hurt. Ambulance is called. I couldn’t get up at all, even with help, so I’m wheeled out on a stretcher and taken to GWU Hospital.
To take my mind off the pain, I joked with everyone. The paramedics, the folks in triage (Terrance at GWU is the bomb, and a Xavier boy, so we started talking about where we could find some good boudin), the doctors…everyone. Oh, and the radiologist owes me a date to go dinner and dancing. I think telling him “I know where you work” might be a bit much, but I’m thinking it REAL HARD.
The verdict? Right ankle: spiral fracture. Left ankle: VERY badly sprained. My sexy ass: can’t walk at all. Watching me scoot through the house and try to be inventive in getting around: comedy. Picture me at about 3 am trying to scoot to the toilet on my son’s skateboard. Epic fail in life. Epic win in comedy.
I can assure you, scooting to the toilet on my butt was not on my weekend plans, but folks have really been helpful and I’m going to have the ill upper body strength.
Beware of my sexy. It’s dangerous!