Last time this happened, I’m blaming it on a slippery front porch, crocs and not paying attention.
Picture this: I go rolling out the front door, bread in hand, to feed the birdies and next thing I knew, I was on my knees, having slid across the icy wooden porch. Okay, then. That’s so attractive.
This time, though, I’m not sure what’s going on.
No ice, no crocs, still me being lost in thought of how awesome I am to feed the birds before the big snow storm.
I’m St. Francis of Assisi here, rocking the bread crumbs!
Then, as I stepped out the door, I hear my ankle go CRAAAACK! and find myself falling to the ground with an enormous thud. It was one of those ‘you know it’s happening but you are unable to stop it‘ sorts of events.
So now I’m sitting on the porch, in a wee bit of shock and not just a wee bit of pain and notice that the nice man from next door has come out and asked “Are you okay, Miss?”
Oh great. Someone saw me fall. That’s perfect. And, he happens to call out just as I’m crawling to the railing to stand up. Oh dear Jesus, will the fun never stop?
“I’m fine! I just twisted my ankle!” I said, cheerily (as if this happens every day)
(please mister, just go away and let me sob and crawl in peace, would ya?)
I manage to stand up somehow and get myself inside the door. The dogs are all very concerned but having no opposable thumbs, cannot help. Dammit.
Call Duty and cry on the phone like I’m 4 and he’s my dad. “Can you come home?” I sob, into the phone.
Why? Why am I asking that?
I call him back and say ‘never mind. I’m okay” in a voice that suggests the opposite. It’s just a sprained ankle, for pity sake, Lisa. Grow up!
(Duty hates when I do that, have I mentioned that before? He’s all “ask for what you want and then stick with it” while I’m a Libra and change my mind constantly. It drives him bonkers.)
I spent the rest of the afternoon with my swollen left foot propped up on the couch, looking pitiful. I admit I did take advantage of it when Duty finally got home and I “allowed” him to fix dinner.
Today, it’s back to normal even though I’m still “Newt of Hobblefoot” and can’t get around well. Poots. I got barely one evening’s worth of pity out of that. What do I have to do to get some sympathy around here, huh?
Moral of the story?
Don’t feed bread to birds from the front porch. Also, pay a-bloody-ttention to what you’re doing when you’re walking out the front door. And, stay in your body. You can’t fly (yet) so stay put.