Remember how I told yall that I was a grown adult, but also very much a child, and should always be supervised? I feel like you don’t remember because things continue to happen to me, and I continue to remind you.
Okay, so this is what happened. We were in a panoramic picture for like ever right? Everything was closed and we couldn’t go anywhere or do anything. Which sucks when it’s your birthday. I mean, you can still get gifts and see people, but like you have to sit outside, and be so many feet away, and wear masks.
But this was the post-panoramic picture era and outside was doing things and I loved it. Going to baseball games with friends, eating all the seafood that was ever made in the history of Uncle’s kitchen, drinking all the things, sleeping in as long as I wanted, and smiling. It was an amazing weekend of smiles celebrating my birthday.
The last event, a Wine Walk, was the best way to end it. Blocked off streets, bottomless wine thanks to being a year older and well, buying a ticket to the event, steaming turkey leg, and oversized grilled oysters. Throw in some good friends you haven’t seen in a while, and it was an amazing day. Absolutely amazing. I mean, day drinking and eating, and getting home while there is still light outside? Life sometimes gives, to us millennials, abundantly.
I arrived home feeling amazing. I navigated the tetris that was the cars in the driveway and on the street because, well, my Uncle. I found a path through the freshly manicured grass, and headed for a seat on the porch to take in the rest of the sunshine. I stopped mid-walk because I heard my Uncle’s voice. He was already on the porch, on the phone with someone. I raised my hand in a happy wave, and took a step.
In milliseconds, my body was shaped like a chalk outline of a person who fell from a few stories up. Still alive, but how would you know for certain? I just laid there wondering how my purse was launched so far from me, because it was literally the only thing in my hand. What’s worse is that Uncle literally worked my fall into his conversation - that hadn’t stopped.
“Uncle. I don’t think I can get up.” I actually thought about not asking for help, as if nobody couldn’t clearly see me laid out in the grass in the front of the yard. Like there was a cloak of invisibility over me or something.
“Man, let me go. This girl is still laid out on the grass.” Laughing. “I know, right!” More laughing. Obviously, whoever he’s speaking to knows me and expects this of me.
Uncle had to bring me a crutch to get up. A single crutch, with which to balance myself, through the grass, up the two steps, into the house. I completely forgot about my purse. He brought it in and put it on the kitchen counter.
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| yes, my ankle is hella ashy under there |
I went to the bathroom, cleaned myself up, and hobbled into some pajamas and into the bed. There was still more sun out, but I didn’t see any of it. Until the next day.
___7:00am, the next day.
“I’m out.” Uncle on his way to work.
“Uncle!!!!!! I don’t think I can walk!” He bursts through the room door assuming I’m laid out again, but I’m in the bed looking at my swollen ankle. It’s like the size of a grapefruit by this point.
“You would hurt yourself when I have to go to work.” Yes, yes I would. I am known for selecting the most inconvenient times to hurt my own self. Walking is my fault now, I guess. He goes to the kitchen and gets an ice pack. I’m instructed to call him if the swelling doesn’t go down. I situate myself in the bed with the ice pack and try to sleep.
But eventually I have to pee. And like I realized at 7:00am, I can’t walk. And I can’t reach that 1 crutch because, where did I put it? Here’s where things get interesting. I’m clearly NOT going to pee in the bed, BUT IF I did pee in this bed, who would know? I literally do the laundry. I got hella bath and body work candles. And yes, I tell yall all my business like my Uncle does, but this - this - I can absolutely keep this to myself.
So I roll over the side of the bed and fall to the floor. Hard. I didn’t realize how tall the bed is and how not tall I am. The math didn’t math and I should feel some shame, but the only thing I feel is the subwoofer attached to my ankle. I shimmy to the bathroom, on my knees and with might unknown get myself propped up on the toilet. Relief. Now, to get back to my room and get my phone because Uncle gotta leave work and fix this.
My phone. In my purse. In the kitchen. On that high ass counter. I haven’t even pulled my pajama pants up. I am in tears yall. Tears. Mostly because I know what’s next. That shimmy I did to get from the bedroom to the bathroom was short. That forward >> left >> long hallway >> right >> through the living room >> left, that I needed to make happen to get to the kitchen, from the bathroom? I literally laid on my stomach, on the floor, and dragged my ridiculous body through the distance of the house, swiffering the floor with my transgressions. When I got to the kitchen counter, I used a barstool to get from horizontal to vertical, and realized I was at the wrong counter.
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| me in my "good" sweater |
The homey (C.H.) said it best, Lawd. We’re getting a handler for you. You can’t be trusted with yourself.
So the Mondays have been without medals because sometimes you hurt your ankle so bad it takes 6 months to get back into shoes - not running shoes, but two shoes that match. There’s more to the medal-free mondays, but I thought we should get the jokes out first.
I owed you that.
