Fetal Position Mondays
One very much wants to avoid, in moments of angst and discontent, turning to the internet in order to broadcast one's trivial woes. But today has gone and reduced me into the emotional equivalent of my 13-year-old self, and in this state of mind, shrieking at my diary is entirely appropriate. Shameless pity party to follow:
So, I broke my foot on Friday night and the ER put a temporary splint on it until I could see a real orthopedist. Today was the first day I've had to commute around town on the crutches, and damn. I'm in decent shape, but that is hard. Also it was raining, and umbrellas are not easy to manuever when you need both hands to propel your body down Massachusetts Avenue. I therefore begin my day wet and disgusting, with a big fat foot covered in garbage bags. (I'm imaging Justin Timberlake descending from the heavens like a superhero, finding the distressed me in order to bring the sexyback. Makeover show pitch?)
Also, orthopedist offices were unobliging with appointments, unnecessarily rude and cutting, and condescending to boot. I was called—I do not jest—kiddo, after being told I'd need to wait 3 weeks to see someone.
By the end of the day, the commuting-about on crutches took its toll on my arms, which started to quiver a little, but I managed to arrive at my bus stop, collapse on the bench, and wait to go home. After 20 fruitless minutes of waiting, a passerby told me that this bus changed route weeks ago, they just haven't changed any signs, and I'd have to march myself elsewhere.
So a bit watery-eyed and sniffly to go with my disheveled and garbage-bag footed couture, I slug it to the other bus stop, but was stopped along the way by a concerned old lady who said, "My dear! Please be careful on those crutches! Be sure you don't jam them into your armpits!"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm trying."
"My girlfriend just died from that!"
Fantastic.
"Of course she was 93."
After these and other serial indignities, I find my bus, I eventually collapse at home, and what should be waiting for me there? But the pair of sexy, killer pumps I ordered a few weeks ago. I look at the arching, delicate shoes, I look at my big block bandaged foot.
Internets, I need a hug.
So, I broke my foot on Friday night and the ER put a temporary splint on it until I could see a real orthopedist. Today was the first day I've had to commute around town on the crutches, and damn. I'm in decent shape, but that is hard. Also it was raining, and umbrellas are not easy to manuever when you need both hands to propel your body down Massachusetts Avenue. I therefore begin my day wet and disgusting, with a big fat foot covered in garbage bags. (I'm imaging Justin Timberlake descending from the heavens like a superhero, finding the distressed me in order to bring the sexyback. Makeover show pitch?)
Also, orthopedist offices were unobliging with appointments, unnecessarily rude and cutting, and condescending to boot. I was called—I do not jest—kiddo, after being told I'd need to wait 3 weeks to see someone.
By the end of the day, the commuting-about on crutches took its toll on my arms, which started to quiver a little, but I managed to arrive at my bus stop, collapse on the bench, and wait to go home. After 20 fruitless minutes of waiting, a passerby told me that this bus changed route weeks ago, they just haven't changed any signs, and I'd have to march myself elsewhere.
So a bit watery-eyed and sniffly to go with my disheveled and garbage-bag footed couture, I slug it to the other bus stop, but was stopped along the way by a concerned old lady who said, "My dear! Please be careful on those crutches! Be sure you don't jam them into your armpits!"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm trying."
"My girlfriend just died from that!"
Fantastic.
"Of course she was 93."
After these and other serial indignities, I find my bus, I eventually collapse at home, and what should be waiting for me there? But the pair of sexy, killer pumps I ordered a few weeks ago. I look at the arching, delicate shoes, I look at my big block bandaged foot.
Internets, I need a hug.
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