I’ve never been the type who’s impervious to other people’s haste. I wish I could be, but I’m not. If someone in line behind me is in a hurry and visibly rushed, I get frazzled and hurried too. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t fall apart, I’m just acutely aware—and when faced with the option of expediting vs. lollygagging, I choose expediting.
Which is why I am now the proud owner of these.
Yes! First, I gave you The Smushed Finger. Then, The Smashed Toe. Now, I’d like to present The Sprained Ankle.
You see, there’s a stairwell at work that’s two platforms high and yesterday, I was walking down it when a co-worker came up behind me. Said co-worker is a towering tree of a woman, and she was in a hurry. Literally, she was on my heels. I could feel her breath on my neck. So I picked up the pace. My intent was to get to one of the platforms and move aside so the Redwood could pass. But just as I was about to step aside, my heel got caught in my pant leg. I landed the wrong way and went down. Against the rail.
Do you know that the bitch never even stopped? She kept going.
Guess who saw it all and came running? Orgy George. And Steve. In mere seconds there were by my side. For a minute it felt like the ending of Big Fish, when all the people with whom you’ve had complex and troublesome relationships come to your side one last time and you cry with joy.
Or immense pain.
George and Steve held my leg in the air (yah, that was awkward) while I sat on a step. I have never been so relieved to have freshly-shaven legs. They brought me icepacks and called 911. They found my missing heel (it had flown off and over the side of the stairwell at the moment of impact). They were great.
The good news is that it’s only a sprain and I get to catch up on shit TV while I heal. The bad news is that I won’t be able to pick up my son or navigate stairs unless I go down on my ass.
But you know what? I now know what it feels like to leave work strapped into a stretcher and to watch my office building grow smaller and smaller through an ambulance window. It’s not such a bad way to go. Sure, people will talk, but they won’t expect you to return their emails for awhile.
And for once I am in no hurry.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.