Last Wednesday, I sprained my ankle. The injury is nothing new to me – been doing it for about 20 years now. But Wednesday night was different… besides the fact that the injury didn’t occur on a field, court, or dance floor: I simply pivoted the wrong way picking something up, and down I went. The pain ripped through my soul as I sat rocking on the floor back and forth, while my ankle began mutating into a cankle. Even after icing and elevating for the majority of Wednesday night, while cry-watching my DVR’d ‘This Is Us,’ when I woke up the next morning, my ankle was bigger than a grapefruit. Swollen eyes, huge cankle, can’t lose.
So I dug through the closet, and found my trusty walking boot (my “shabootie”, if you will), strapped up, and hobbled into work, because I will be damned if I spend one of my precious days off ailing with an injured foot. I work with some really nice people, and every single nice person asked me what I did, and if I was okay, and if I needed anything. (Thanks, fam.) I also work with some really shitty people, who asked me what I did, and why it happened, and then called me “old, ha-ha-ha” (still sensitive about my age, assholes).
But no matter if I was talking to a naughty or nice coworker, each conversation ended with them giving me a piece of advice: rest my ankle for the rest of the weekend. Yeah, not happening: this past weekend was my annual college girls’ weekend, Friendsmas, and I was going to be damned if anything, be it blood, flood, fire, or cankle foot kept me from Friendsmas. The trusty shabootie came along for the ride, and dammit, it was one of the best Friendsmas, not to mention weekend, I’ve ever had.
A key detail that I have left out is that my injury occurred at the crux of the worst weeks ever: both my work and personal life have been something along the lines of “the glass isn’t half empty because there’s not even a drop of water, and there hasn’t been water for weeks and there won’t be any more water for awhile”, and I remind you, this happened on a Wednesday. So when I was in a fetal position, rocking back and forth on Wednesday night, alternating between yelling “MOTHERFUCK” at the top of my lungs, and whimpering the Lord’s Prayer, all while holding back tears (because I’m not a pussy), it dawned on me: The fucking cankle was a metaphor for how I’m going to handle my life for the rest of 2016.
The sprain happened for no reason, other than the reason that “shit happens.” It hurt like a motherfucker, and this is the worse that it’s ever been. I had to crawl and scoot around like a toddler for the rest of the night, (make dinner, take care of the dog, binge watch TV) and still had to go into work the next day. But here’s the thing: I may have been beat up, but I wasn’t beaten. I found my trusty shabootie, some Advil, (literally) sucked it up, and went on with my life. I took the lemon and made lemonade… and then this weekend I added some vodka and hit (okay, more like hobbled around on) the dance floor.
I’ve been done with 2016 for a long time, but from now on, (all whatever-ish days left of this shit-stain-on-the-soul of a year) I’m all for looking on the bright side of things. Because, really, can it get worse? Mmmm, maybe we won’t go there quite yet. Now excuse me, I’m off to the ER since my ankle resembles a Jackson Pollack painting. Here’s hoping for a hot doctor. .
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