Imagine, if you would, your upper thigh, preferably the widest part. Supermodels, think about a tree trunk. Now imagine your thigh/tree trunk wrapped around my left ankle. Add a lot of black and a little blue. E voila! You have my lovely sprained ankle!
As I was running for the bus on Wednesday, my already weak as shit ankle turned. After having my ankles spontaneously turn on me for 26 years at this point, I'm usually pretty quick to correct my balance. Frenzied running kind of made that impossible. Now, I'm a klutzy girl. I fall all the time (did I ever tell you about the semester in college when I had that inner ear imbalance? Bloody times, my friends. Buckets of blood and many pairs of ripped pants). Usually I just roll with it - the roll is very important in falling - brush myself off and jump back up red-faced. This time though I landed square in the middle of the street and for a brief, horrifying moment I wasn't sure if I could get up. I knew the fall had to have looked bad when people started getting out of their cars to see if I was okay. Um, embarrassing. I hobbled onto the bus where I got a good stare by everyone who could see out of the front of the bus. Thank god the driver waited for my sore ass. If he had pulled away from the bus I would have thrown myself in front of it. I mean really, what more did I have to injure?
The unexpected bonus of having a super sprained as shit ankle is the kid glove treatment of Mr. F (who already is weirdly nice to me. It's so strange being with someone who isn't, you know, a complete psycho asshole) AND I get to wear my ghetto sneakers to work!!! I can't tell you how the inner bum in me rejoiced when I realized that. Of course I didn't jump up and down or anything (oh we'll be having none of that, thank you very much) but oh, my heart was full of glee.
That said, I'm already bored with my injury. I'm done with it. Unfortunately it's not done with me. Bastard ankle.