Or, this could also be called "How I am the least graceful ballerina ever". It's also yet another one of those stories where I fell down while I was drunk, not necessarily because I was drunk. The fact that I have multiple stories like this kind of proves my point made in the title and the first sentence.
Friday night we went out bowling to celebrate the birthday of a friend. It was a splendid evening of me bowling one of my worst games yet, amazing bar food, and open bar. Oh, and great friends. They were important too. Much fun was had by all, but sadly the night could not go on forever (read: the open bar ended). A trio of us wanted just one more drink (and couldn't convince our friends to join us at a bar where we knew the bartender), so we ventured off on our own.
We set off walking the, I don't know, three blocks to the next bar. It was at an intersection, where I twisted the shit out of my ankle and fell into a puddle. Know what else fell into said puddle? My phone. Don't worry it's fine. My ankle? Not so much. The benefit to being intoxicated when you do something fantastically awful to your ankle, you don't really notice it so much. However, when I got home and removed my boots, I saw that my right ankle was swollen like woah. That, or someone implanted a tennis ball under my skin. Yeah, that swollen. The dancer that will always live inside me took over. I found my bandage, wrapped it up, and went to sleep.
In the morning, I found I couldn't put any weight on it. None. I started thinking about how I had to work and whether or not the boss deserved a heads-up text. No sense in making him panic (or start his morning on the wrong foot), so I opted for no text and instead spent my morning going through the "so you sprained your ankle" routine. After a warm shower, I could move my foot around more freely than when I first woke up. Progress. Hopped into the kitchen to make an ice pack, then got comfy on the couch for an episode of How I Met Your Mother while my elevated foot took in the sweet, sweet relief of the ice. After the appropriate twenty minutes (thank you, Netflix, for making TV into the perfect twenty-minute segment so I don't have to remember to keep an eye on the time), I wrapped the ankle up and put on my big clunky sneakers. I could walk! With a limp and not very quickly, I could walk! Success!
After a weekend of my usual work schedule featuring me, the bartender with a slight limp, I was happy to be home Sunday night to relax and watch a bit of TV. And, you know, document my injury.
Step one is to ice and elevate the foot simultaneously.
The plastic wrap holds it in place. I really waited all day to be able to relax with it like that. I mean, it's pretty banged up. Look at all the bruising!
The worst part was my inability to walk without support. For example, I wanted to make some pasta. Here's the thing. I hate wearing shoes, especially big sneakers and the like. And I really hate wearing shoes in my own apartment (or really, anyone's domicile for that matter). So, I compromised.
Pasta was a success. Foot was elevated. Netflix was had.
And that was my evening and much of my day today. However, today, I can walk around sans support and it makes me far happier than it should. Maybe someday I will learn to be less clumsy. Until then, people will be treated to more stories and situations like this.