They told me not to do it.
Every last one of them.
They told me not to walk home.
They said they would call me a cab.
Or they would drive me home.
Or they would walk with me.
I just had to wait a little bit longer.
But I was hungry.
And it was coming up on 3 a.m.
If I wanted a gyro (stuffed with French fries), I needed to hit the road.
So I did.
Let’s face it…listening isn’t really one of my strengths anyway.
I got my gyro. I got some yogurt dip too. I needed both. Obviously.
I was less than a block away from home.
And I ate @#$%.
I ate @#$% so hard the sidewalk was laughing at me.
I shook it off (I was hungry) and I limped home.
I ate my gyro and I went to bed.
No big deal.
I woke up in a panic. Maid Marian was coming over. We had big things to do. She’s a morning person. I (clearly) am not. She’s also a good friend. I did not want to disappoint her (I’ve tried that before, it sucks).
I rolled out of bed…
My foot was fat. So was my ankle. Both were black and blue.
There was also blood all over my white comforter (classy, I know).
Apparently, I had taken a few layers of skin off my knee…which was also swollen, black and blue.
Rather than spoil mine and Maid Marian’s day, I threw on six band-aids and some shoes.
No big deal.
By the time we sat down for lunch, blood was running down my leg and I could barely move my calf.
I drove myself to Urgent Care.
I left – on crutches.
All the Bros that told me not to walk home thoroughly enjoyed telling me “I told you so.”
The crutches made me beyond miserable. So did the super stupid crutch things people like to say.
1. “Hey gimpy.”
Gimpy isn’t a cute word. It’s not a funny word either. You could call me pretty much anything else. Seriously. I have called myself (and I’m sure I’ve been called) WAY worse. I hate gimpy jokes. And I hate everyone that thought it was either cute or funny to make them.
2. “You look uncomfortable.”
Uh, that’s because I am. I have bruises in and around my armpits. I’m sweating (I don’t even sweat when I workout, actually, I don’t even workout). I can’t drive my own car. The only two living creatures totally available for me right now are my kittens. But I commend your use of common sense. Idiot.
3. “You should get a better story.”
I get it. I fell. Walking. It’s kind of boring. But these bangs aren’t boring. I fell REALLY hard in the most beautiful four-inch heels. And I saved my mother@#$%ing sandwich. I enjoyed eating said sandwich before I went to bed. LIKE A GANGSTER. That should count for something.
I ditched the crutches and the brace after a week. I went back to my blunt-banged business as usual. I noticed my ankle would bug me from time to time. But I thought, eh.
No big deal.
During a very important waxing appointment, my esthetician (and dear friend) asked me what was wrong with my ankle. I felt scared. And vulnerable. She was ripping hot wax off my body while she was checking out my imperfections. I didn’t realize she did that.
Turns out my ankle was still pretty swollen (at least that’s what she says).
She threatened me.
So I agreed to see a specialist.
I had barely introduced myself to the specialist before I was being fitted for a seriously sexy boot.
Apparently, it was no sprain.
I had torn tendons and ligaments.
I WENT BIG.
Kathleen (what’s up Boo) and I took the boot out to celebrate.
In the bathroom, I met another boot.
But not just any boot.
A very cute glitter boot.
We both laughed hard when we saw our boots.
She snapped a pic and said “TWINNING!”
I knew it was meant to be.
I actually don’t know the other boot’s name, but I did get permission to post our pic.
Cheers pretty lady!
I think we make these boots look damn good.
Even in the ladies room.
Especially in the ladies room.