Yes, this is MY BROKEN LEG!!!
Before we go any further, let me explain that I’m on some nifty pain meds, so I’m not responsible for my actions. If only I’d known this in college. I could have gotten away with soooo much stuff.
To rewind a bit, except for this one little thing, this little broken fibula thing, yesterday was a day well lived. Dan brought home the morning paper, which was a rare occurrence. We ordinarily only receive the paper on weekends — our way of cutting costs and saving trees. Normally, we do what every other red-blooded American does. We receive the news from Jon Stewart and The Internets. Nevertheless, I LOVE coffee with a newspaper crackling in my hands. It’s just so newsprinty. So, I’m drinking my coffee and turning pages, when I come across a notice that there’s a writer’s group that meets every Tuesday not that far from home. You don’t have to ask me twice. A Writer’s Group!
When I arrived, note pad in hand, I found myself in seventh heaven. I was surrounded by writerly types, the scent of iced lattes, chocolate brownies and thinking brain matter drifting all about. It was the BEST. I even won a prize for something. THEY GAVE PRIZES. It was wonderful–
–until I left. On my way to the car, the side of my foot rolled into a joint in the concrete, sending me ass over teakettle and soon thereafter, drooling over three nice firemen in their tight blue T-shirts.
A trip to the hospital and a few X-Rays later, here we are. One broken fibula, a temporary splint to be replaced by a hard cast suitable for signing, a pair of crutches more treacherous than that nasty mall sidewalk, and a very sleepless night on the couch wrapped in ice and misery.
Recovery is expected to be anywhere from six weeks to three months. Don’t feel sorry for me, though. I get out of doing the dishes.