Who’s your gimp, baby

Yesterday just wasn’t my day. I’ve been grumpy all week and sleeping more than usual, so getting into work at 7:30 a.m. has been a stretch. It starts out with my hitting snooze until 6:54 and then pretending that if I move really fast I’ll make in and to my desk on time.

I have no sense of reality, just like my mom. Another trait my mother adheres to is clumsiness. Evidently, I’ve picked up that nasty habit as well. After ACL last weekend my ankle started to feel a little funny, and because I’m so bright I decided what I needed was a good long run. That nice little jaunt left me with a swollen ankle, which I’ve been denying for the past week.

The idea that I was denying it might be a little harsh. I’ve been complaining enough about it that my friends were beginning to avoid me, so I thought I better go in for an exam. I went to the Doctor’s office and spent my first hour waiting to be called so that I could wait again while he finished his yogurt or whatever it does that takes doctor’s so long in-between patients. I moved on to the second room and waited like a good kid on the table with the little paper protector crinkling underneath me.

I never know if I should get a magazine while I wait or not. The idea that a bunch of sick germ spreading freaks have thumbed through the pages hacking up golf balls of flim, makes me wonder why they have them in their offices at all. I decided a better us of my time was to day dreams that a beautiful young man would come in and take a look at my ankle. Of course he would be swept away with my gorgeous feet and we would have sex right there, but reality assured me that my piggies aren’t so great and neither was the doctor. Besides midway through the fantasy, I started considering that I could never really trust a doctor. I mean if he could fall in love with my feet and just start pounding away at it without really knowing me, then he’s probably a slut. I don’t want a man like that. I should really learn to let go when I fantasize.

Instead of the doctor and I having a tawdry affair, I ended up getting X-rays and a splint. He also gave me orders to wear tennis shoes for a week. A….wha…..week? Yep, doctor’s orders. Your little snowflake gets to run around in tennies for a week. Sounds good, unless you actually like wearing heels that make you look “tall”. Plus I’m convinced that the higher my heels are, the smaller my ass looks. I’m not sure why this would be, but I’ve somehow convinced myself that this is true. I just feel thinner in heels.

So now I’m not allowed to run or do anything like that, I can’t wear stilts, and I have to sport t-shoes. I’m not sure if this guy likes girls who look like guys, or whatever sick fetish he has, but I’m not much for that look on me. I’m pretty sure that I look like someone who’s on her way to get a mullet when I wear my running shoes in public.* The horror. I shudder.

I picture myself gaining a whole-nother body size, like say another 100 pounds, laying around icing my ankle, and then picking out golf shirts to go with my boyish khaki pants and t-shoes for the next day of work. I’ll probably start hanging out with my some of my coworkers who can pull off this look. Then I can get my own unisex nickname and learn to walk with a limp. It’s gonna be great. Once I get that mullet they’re really let me into their group, and then watch out. It’s sports bras and stud earrings for me.

Wow. Could it get any worse? Could I get any pettier? I just want to be girly – gosh!


*Mullet props go out to the Playa MC who suggested I go with him to get my mullet this week while he got his haircut.