Wordless Wednesday: Not That You’ll Be Surprised…

injury prone accident prone wrist accident prone wrist

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Confession Friday: Cancer isn’t Funny…But I Might Be

Yesterday, in an effort to relieve the back pain that I’ve been in all week, I went to see my favorite massage therapist in the whole world. C has been there for me through the years. Through the boyfriends, the jobs, the sprains, and the slips. He’s my therapeutic rock. Not only do I get an hour to two hours of his time every month while he kneads the pain out of my back, neck, shoulders, and anything else that hurts, but the time is also well spent in conversation. It’s like therapy. Only better.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw C. I had just joined Massage Envy (If you ever decide to join–use me as your reference!!) and had seen a few different therapists. When I saw C for the first time, he asked if I had a regular therapist. I told him, “nope! I just see whoever is available.”

His next words to me were, “Let’s see if we can change that.”

Since that day, I’ve been a C-fan without question. I feel like I’m cheating on C whenever I go to a different therapist (and since his hours correlate with the normal working hours of normal people, when I have a full time gig, no C for me.) Regardless of his Wisconsin-loving Bear-hating ‘tude, he’s pretty much the greatest thing since sliced bread. Plus he thinks I’m really funny.

With the back pain this week, I tried to get in all week. Finally I was squeezed in this morning. JOY! As we chatted and C beat the crap out of Angry Lower Back, this conversation played itself out:

Me: “Sometimes, I think I’m a hypochondriac, but then I realize that I have legit pain…”

C: “Hypochondriacs feel legit pain. But I don’t think that you’re a hypochondriac.”

Me: “So, if I think that I’m a hypochondriac, does that mean that I am?”

C: “No, if you were a hypochondriac, you’d come up with more interesting ailments.”

Me: “But what if I’m a lazy hypochondriac?”

C: “So you would have come up with a disease, but you didn’t feel like Googling your symptoms?  I don’t buy it.”

Me: “Well, I could just say it’s all cancer. Like that angry ball in my lower back. It’s a tumor right?”

C: “Yep. Tumor. Definitely. You should have a fundraiser to pay for all of your medical bills and care. Then you can give me a cut of the money, when you’re magically cured.”

Me: “OK. So, massage therapy will cure my cancer. Then you can give me a cut of the money from all your new clients. When can we start?”

OBVIOUSLY, we were both joking around. But it’s nice to have a therapist who totally gets my humor. A massage therapist, that is.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Hematoma, My Ass

I had intended to tell you about Second Thanksgiving, you know…on Thanksgiving…but then I got really mad at the stores that were opening up too flippin’ early, and I wrote about Black Thanksgiving instead, which turned out to be awesome, because then it made perfect sense when I ended up in the Chicago Tribune sounding all smart and boycott-y.

But Second Thanksgiving has a place near and dear to my heart, so I have to at least mention it. My college friends and I consider ourselves a family. We were mostly brothers in a fraternity (Alpha Phi Omega). Yes, I said brothers. Yes, I said fraternity. Co-ed service fraternity, in which we were do-gooders who became leaders and drank a lot together.

Second Thanksgiving

The first turkey I ever cooked. And for the record…I don’t even like turkey!

A year after we graduated from college, I decided (much like in college) that I was going to throw a party at Mark’s apartment. He had recently moved to my hometown and I lived with my parents. So I said that we were going to have “Second Thanksgiving” and history began that day.

My friend, Kevin told me, “We should do this every year. It’s better than real Thanksgiving. There’s no bitching families or whining or anything.”

I told him it was because we were the family that we chose…not the family we were born into. And it worked. 6 years later, we’re still going strong. Everyone brings a piece of the feast, so it’s a really fun tradition. (Although we’re sounding more like a real family now…Oh man HE’S here again? Uncle Albert always grabs my ass!etc etc…)

Two years ago, though, something happened at Second Thanksgiving. Something that I think you will find…amusing.

My physical therapist friend (who is now a physical therapist and not just a PT major), Barb, had just bought a house in the city, so we trekked in and had Second Thanksgiving there. It was a cute ranch house in one of those city neighborhoods with hardwood floors and a full basement. Perfect size for our Second Thanksgiving group.

Food was served upstairs, but the TV and football were downstairs. Obviously, you know where this is going…

So I had a full plate of food in one hand, a beer in the other, and socks on. If you didn’t know where this was going before, I’ll bet you do now…

I make it down the first step before my foot slips and bam! I’m on my ass covered in Thanksgiving dinner with a beer in my hand, crying.

A flurry of activity ensued.

“Are you okay?!”

“How’s your knee?”

“How’re your ankles?”

“Did you sprain something again?”

“Did you break something?”

“Of course, she spills food everywhere, but the beer is still in her hand…”

“It’s my ass!!!” Through painful sobs, I explained that I had landed on my right butt cheek and it hurt a whole lot. Like throbbing, burning, horrible pain. But the rest of me was fine.

Someone brought me a new plate of food. My beer was still in tact. And Barb brought me an ice pack and made me sit on it. It was fricking-freezing-Mr.-Bigglesworth cold. But I sat on it.

When I got home that night, I dropped trou and checked out my ass. Shades of purple, blue, green, yellow, grey, red, and pink painted my left cheek. The whole. Damn. Thing. I wish I had thought to take a picture of the art on my ass.

For weeks, this colorful array of sunshine on my behind graced me with pain whenever I sat down. Slowly, it faded. Slowly, the pale white Irish/Polish skin tone returned to my cheek. But for some reason the pain stayed. For a year. At the last Second Thanksgiving, my butt was still hurting. The hematoma was still there. I haven’t felt it in a while, so it has finally dissipated. But damn that shit hurt.

I really feel like the beer saved my ass. Literally. If I hadn’t been holding and protecting the beer, I may have fallen smack on my tailbone, instead of on my one cheek. The main area of pain was just centimeters away from my tailbone.

So thank you, Beer. Thank you kindly.

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How I Sprained My Knee 3 Times in One Semester AKA The Fucking Strawberry

Confession Friday: I sprained my knee…slipping on a strawberry.

“A what?!” You may be asking yourself…and yes, I said a strawberry.

If you aren’t caught up on the fact that this is part 3 of a series of blog posts, you can read the first two, about my skiing injury and then my epic battle with an icy alley.

Now that you can see what you’re dealing with here (you know, the biggest klutz in the history of ever…), let’s move on, shall we?

So I was finally out of physical therapy for the second time…thank God for Bradley and their fancy pants PT department because we had no insurance…and I was walking a little bit better. My physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major was making me do regular exercises to regain mobility (Sit on the ground with your legs straight out. See how they both look normal? Now pop one knee up about 4-5 inches… And imagine that you have a hyper-extended other knee…because I have hyper-extended joints… That’s what my knee looked like. It would not straighten out completely. And it still hurts a little bit to this day Oh, hey! We’re still inside a parenthetical statement. Sorry about that…)

So I was doing everything she told me. Even though it was essentially healing really well, I still iced it…and used elevators…and was late to math class (okay, I was late to all classes, but math was the best. Math 101: the only math class I took at Bradley. Math 101: in which I hobbled in late on crutches every day. Math 101: in which I walked over to the far side of the room after class started, pulled out the left-handed desk, and pulled up a chair to rest my knee on… Math 101: where I was the biggest asshole in the history of ever.)

I may have mentioned that I’m a stubborn ass Polak…and I like to do things for myself. I don’t like to rely on other people, and I certainly like to push my limits. So I always wanted to keep moving and get my mobility back. But I did what my physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major said. I even used the elevator when I wanted to take the stairs (Yes, there was a time when I wanted to take the stairs! (I don’t particularly care for elevators. After you’ve been in a few too many over-stuffed elevators that have ever gotten stuck or gasp dropped a few floors, you wouldn’t either!)

So I was feeling a little pain after a long day of walking to class…and I thought to myself, Self, you should ice your knee. So I got up from watching bad college TV (at one point we had a lava lamp channel!) and started to head toward the stairs. I thought twice and decided…No, Chrissy…it’s already been a long day. Suck it up and take the elevator. So I walked to the elevator. Rode up to the second floor. Made my way to the laundry room, which had two doors on either side of the floor (girls on one side, guys on the other). I walked into the laundry room with the sound of dudes’ laughter on the other side. But the second step, I slipped comic-style with one foot in the air and my ass going toward the ground. My knee was shot. Again. I screamed the way that I scream when I injure myself or see a spider or accidentally forget to take cookies out of the oven and burn them. And the boys on the other side of the door looked at me like I was crazy.

And I panicked.

Again.

And when I saw the apparatus of my demise…I was like, why the fuck is there a rotten strawberry on the floor of the Willy 2 laundry room? And then I remembered that one of my dear friends had also banged some dude in that same tiny laundry room and decided that it was better not to ask questions like that.

I crawled back downstairs and handled myself…and called my physical therapist friend who was a physical therapy major…she came over and told me I was an idiot and had sprained myself again. I whined, “But I took the elevator and was getting ice and everything!!! It was that fucking strawberry!!”

A fucking strawberry.
Not a banana; that would be too cliche.

A fucking strawberry.

9 years ago.

And yet, just this year, Katie, my favorite little bookworm, Katie decided to tell me that she saw the strawberry…a few days before my little slip. And didn’t like…tell maintenance or anything. So, you know…if you don’t visit her blog today in solidarity with me and the strawberry incident… And she’s been begging me to tell this story. (I’m not going to lie, it was my favorite to tell on first dates. It gave me an idea of whether a dude could handle my shit or not.)

A fucking strawberry. In a laundry room.

Are you kidding me?

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Falling on black ice in a back alley isn’t exactly my idea of a great night

If you aren’t caught up, go ahead and read about the original knee sprain when I made the mistake of going skiing without health insurance. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

You’re back? Great. Let’s continue.

So I went home for the rest of winter break, and hobbled my uninsured ass around for 2 weeks. Upon my return to the great state of Bradley, I was forced by my physical therapist one of my besties who was a physical therapy major to go to the health center. This is where I received “free” medical care and crutches. They set me up with a physical therapist (a legit one, who taught at the Bradley PT school) and I was on my way to a not-so-speedy recovery.

Let me reiterate this to you with a few key points

  • College Campus
  • College Student
  • LOTS of alcohol
  • Crutches
  • Winter
  • Snow
  • Ice
  • Death Snow
  • Death Ice
  • Stubborn ass Polak

Is the picture becoming a little bit clearer?

So I was finally off the crutches, some time in early March. I was healing. I was walking without assistance. I still had some pain, but the sprain, per say, was healed.

One of my roommates was singing in a choir thing, so we went to go support her. I had to leave early in order to attend an Alpha Phi Omega meeting (I was a vice-president at the time, and needed to make my presence known to all the little pledgies. I was might still feel very self-important.)

The music hall was off campus, and a few blocks away. It was dark, and icy…

You can see where this may be going.

I was crossing an alley covered in black ice…and lost control. I slipped. I tried to re-balance myself, but I overcompensated and pulled my knee out of line. At which point, I, not only re-sprained the knee, I fell on my ass. And to make matters worse, there was a car coming.

The car didn’t see me, so I had to quickly scoot my ass off the alley before it hit me. I made it JUST in time.

My roommates were in a concert. They didn’t answer their phones. To be honest, it was lucky I had just gotten my first Sprint phone a few months earlier…otherwise I would have been stranded on the street! So I called Robert. He and his Audi picked me up. He told me I should just go back to my dorm and rest it, but I was a stubborn ass Polak, and needed to go to the pledge meeting. When my physical therapist one of my besties who was a physical therapy major saw me hobbling, she was pissed. She told me to sit down and let it rest. She made me get the crutches. Again. And so I was back in PT for the second time that semester…

Oh yes…there’s more.

To be continued….

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

This is Why I Don’t Ski Anymore

When I was in 7th grade, my church had a ski trip for all of the junior high kids. So I packed up some of my best buddies, and Mom drove us to our first ski trip (about 20 minutes away on a little hill of a mountain.)

It was amazing. We had so much fun that we did it again the following year.

Of course, the year after that, I was in high school and too cool to do that sort of thing. Also, I was very busy being a cheerleader…and I may have just sprained my ankle for the first time…

So I happily went many years without so much as a thought about skiing. Several years and hundreds of injuries later, I was a sophomore in college. The boys were planning a ski trip over winter break, and I just HAD to go. Mark and Robert were two of my best buddies, and I wanted to play with the big boys.

My mom, of course, was against the whole thing. “You’ll hurt yourself!” Our insurance company had gone bankrupt or something, so we were in between medical insurance policies at the time and Mom knew my history with injuries. At that point, I had sprained both ankles numerous times. I was a walking disaster. They tell me I can’t chew gum and walk up the stairs at the same time…(I can’t chew gum at all anymore because of my TMJ disorder, but that’s beside the point.)

So, being the stubborn 19-year-old college student that I was… I went skiing.

I was happily skiing down the “bunny hill” and going at my own pace. The boys, though, were not pleased with my la-dee-da thought process. They both came packing with their own ski equipment, and wanted to try the “black mountains.” Of course, with their “younger sister” type in tow, they didn’t feel comfortable leaving me all the way on the other side of the resort.

So I agreed to step it up a notch.

I moved to one of the next harder hills, and I was doing just fine. There was a dip in the hill where it was flat, so I could slow down and pace myself. It worked out quite well. Until it didn’t.

Mark was ready to head towards the bar and I was considering taking a break/calling it quits, but I was sort of crushing on Robert at the time, and I thought…if he’s going down once more, I can too. So I told Mark I’d meet him at the bar and I thought Robert was right behind me.

I started going a little too fast…and the break, where I was supposed to slow down? I missed it. I went straight through it.

I started panicking. I lost control.

There was a guy in front of me, going way slower. I screeched, “Get out of the way!!!!”

I thought, and I panicked. The boys had said, “if you need to slow down, turn,” and, “If you feel like you are going to fall, let yourself fall.”

So I did both.

Everything happened so fast. I heard a crack. My left ski popped off. My right ski did not. But my right leg was positioned unusually awkward. My body was in pain. I was cold. I was screaming. I was crying. I couldn’t move my right leg.

The guy I passed turned out to be ski patrol. He came over quickly and called for backup. He took the ski from my right foot. He helped me get myself situated. When the ski patrol jet ski guy came, he helped me onto it.

I rode it up to the medical attention center, where they elevated my knee and iced it. “It was probably a sprain,” they told me. I was in shock. They asked for my friends’ names. I told them. All I could think, though, was she’s going to kill me. She’s going to kill me. She’s going to kill me.

When Mark and Robert arrived with their heads shaking, my thoughts were now verbalized, “She’s going to kill me. She’s going to kill me. She’s going to kill me.” I probably looked certifiable. I was rocking back and forth repeating the same thing over and over and over again.

And so, we had a strained ride home in a tiny little beater Audi from the 80’s with 2 dudes, 2 sets of skis, and a Chrissy with a bad knee. For like 4 hours. Then I had to drive my ass home the next day with my driving leg not so much working. I learned how to drive with cruise control and my left leg that day.

Mom was not pleased. And I was determined never to ski again. God did not intend me to fly down a mountain on a couple of sticks. But of course, that wasn’t the end of this saga.

To Be Continued….

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The 1996 Olympics and the Evil Vault

The Olympics have always been my thing. 4 months ago, I told my boyfriend and roommate that we would have two weeks of non-stop sports television when the Olympics came on…Maybe they didn’t believe me. Maybe they didn’t understand the scope. Maybe they really didn’t think I could watch THAT much Olympic coverage…but I can. And I am. Suffice it to say, they were actually shocked that by the 4th night I was still obsessing. Brian even offered to watch a Disney movie with me, and I told him, “After the 12th.”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried during this year’s Olympics. But it’s been a lot. Beginning with opening ceremonies, all the way through to the current morning, I can’t seem to keep my Olympic sized emotions in check. When I watched the Magnificent Seven video on Sunday morning (yes, I DVRed everything so I can watch it at my leisure and fast forward through commercials and boring stuff), I was bawling my eyes out.

1996 Olympics

I remember watching the 1996 Olympic Games like it was yesterday. I was 13 and angst-y, but the Olympics gave me something to dream about. I remember watching the late night coverage as I fell asleep in my bedroom, listening to the Gloria Esteban song a thousand times, and obsessing over Dominique Moceanu’s adorable floor routine. She was my favorite, probably because she was the closest in age to me, though most of the Mag Seven were all relatively young.

The most impressing moment of those Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia was, of course, Kerri Strug’s epic vault. I wasn’t the biggest Strug fan, as my loyalties were to her younger arch-rival also under Karolyi’s teaching, Dominique Moceanu. But as Kerri was a part of team USA, of course, I cheered for her. When she fell on her first vault and kept going…I was shocked and excited. When she stuck her final landing, I was crying. Mom and I watched as they carried Strug off the floor, in awe, and at the same time, we were so excited for the US Gold.

My Vaulting Experience

Of course, I did promise my own contribution to this little tale…

About a year later, I was a freshman in high school. I was an athlete, a cheerleader, and I loved high school. In Freshman Gym, we had a gymnastics unit, in which we utilized all of the gymnastics equipment. This was, by far, my favorite unit in typical gym classes. The last day before Christmas break, I was performing a jump over the vault, and I landed too close to the apparatus where the mats were unevenly spaced, and my ankle rolled off the bottom of the vault. I fell, and could not get up. Two of my classmates walked me down to the nurse, where they iced & elevated the ankle and called my mom.

Mom took me to the doctor, my last visit to Doctor Carol (the pediatrician that was so old she was my mom’s pediatrician). The ankle was sprained pretty badly and I needed crutches. Dr. Carol put me on crutches and told me to stay off my ankle for two weeks.

That night, at the home basketball game, I was obviously benched, and sat in the bleachers with my coaches and my crutches. I was really bummed out. I had been crying all day. I had missed “candy cane delivery” for the last day before Christmas break (sure that one of my many crushes would send me a candy cane professing their love for me). So I sat there, depressed, but managed to keep it in check while I cheered for our basketball team with the energy and excitement that I was known for.

Later that night, as a celebratory “coaches meeting” took place at Flaherty’s (the bar that my family owned), the high school sports trainer walked up to my dad and asked him what had happened to me. Dad told him the story of gym class gone awry, and after some additional rants from Mr. G about high school athletes not needing gym class, Mr. G told my dad to bring me in to see him in the morning.

That Saturday morning, during a wrestling meet, I met with Mr. G. He looked at my ankle and told me this, “If you want to cheer when you get back from Christmas break, you’ll need to start walking on it today.” He cut out some foam pieces and fit them into my cheer shoes. “These will help you walk a little easier. They will angle your feet so that you aren’t putting as much pressure on your hurt ankle. Try them out.”

I got up and started walking. This was, as I now understand, the biggest mistake of my life. It hurt like hell, but I wanted to cheer. You don’t threaten a 14-year-old to go against a doctor’s orders if he or she would like to continue their sport. But he did. And I listened. Dad and I didn’t know any better.

As a result, my ankle never healed properly (as my body had not fully developed), and my other ankle was weakened by favoring the injured one. I have sprained both ankles countless times, and even an orthopedic surgeon could only tell me that my ankles were “loosey goosey” and I would just have to “deal with annual ankle sprains.”

I may not have competed in the Olympics, but hey, Kerri Strug and I have something in common now.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Accident Prone

As I sit here with a cut on my right hand from God only knows what this afternoon, a gash on my left ring finger from this morning (when I was putting my shampoo back into the shower caddy and my razor jumped up and bit me), and a visible scar on my left thumb from cleaning the bathroom several weeks ago (and slicing my thumb open on a screw at the base of the toilet), I can’t help but back-track to all of the other ridiculous cuts/gashes/bruises that I’ve incurred over the course of my lifetime…

This is just a glimpse of a few of my idiot injuries.

Cooking a bagel–finger burn
Toasting an English muffin-hand burn
Cooking a frozen pizza–wrist burn
Opening a cereal box–paper cut
Walking down stairs–more injuries than I can count
 
The time when I was doing my civic duty, throwing away my trash after a movie. I tossed the drink cup into the garbage attached to the wall, and something bit me. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but something cut deep under my nail bed. So bad that it swelled up, bruised up, and I had to go to the doctor for antibiotics thanks to a raging infection. SUPER FUN.

One of my favorite “cutter” stories is from the start of junior year at Bradley. I had just officially moved into my college apartment, and I was waiting for my future boyfriend to arrive in town. I was having one of those really great days; you know the ones where you’re dancing around your apartment and doing all sorts of random cleaning/organizing because you’re actually motivated to do them?

So I was about ready to make some lunch, and I decided that I would have a turkey ham sandwich with cheese. I grabbed a steak knife to open the plastic packaging, and was having trouble when WHAM! I sliced into half of my finger. Luckily, Katie’s then boyfriend, Jim was arriving at the apartment, as I was panicking. He barely looked at it, but went off to CVS to pick up some medical supplies in order to handle my little situation.

Cletus showed up while Jim was at the pharmacy, learning everything he could from the pharmacist to ensure that I kept my entire finger in tact. When Cletus saw the blood soaking through all ten paper towels I had wrapped around my hand, he panicked. He told me that I should probably go to the hospital and get that shit handled. I had plans that night and I was NOT going to mess around with doctors and hospitals.

Jim returned with supplies and helpful tips from the local pharmacist, and he helped bandage me up. Welcome Week certainly started with a bang that year.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Happy 4th of July

It’s the 4th of July.  I can’t help but think about past Independence Days. I’ve had to work many a national holidays, including several July 4ths. When I was a catering manager, we had an incredibly busy conference during the first week of July every year. Every person on staff was working full-time, some even over time. Myself included.

In 2008, I was scheduled to work 13-15 hour days throughout the course of the week. I was not happy about having to work through another family holiday, but I was willing to suck it up for the OT. On the first day of the conference, I was scheduled to start at 5 AM. I rolled out of bed, showered, and raced my butt into work. For almost the first 3 hours, I ran my ass off, working as hard as I could to get everything handled. At about 8:30, the staff was able to take a breakfast break.

We all sat down to eat some eggs and bacon, and one of my bosses, Marissa, looked me in the eye and said in the most serious tone, “It looks like somebody forgot to put makeup on this morning.”

I started to mumble that I was planning on putting it on during the break, when my lead server–who was one of the quietest and sweetest girls that I knew–looked at Marissa and asked, “What’s the big deal with that? Why does that matter?”

Marissa glared at her and said, “Well, that’s part of her uniform. Makeup makes her look more presentable. Presentation is important.”

Well, I was young and sassy, and I would be damned before I let someone tell me how to present myself. So I stopped wearing makeup, most of the time. Especially to work. I wasn’t going to let anyone determine whether my appearance is acceptable based on the makeup that I was wearing.

Maybe it was because of this sassy ‘tude. Maybe it was because of my klutzy self. Maybe it was just something that happened. By the end of that day, I couldn’t walk. I had somehow sprained my ankle through the dinner rush (this is something that happens more often than it should. I am the world’s biggest klutz). My plan was to head out to see an 80’s hair metal band at the Taste of Lombard, our local festival, after my shift ended sometime after 8–I was super excited about it. But I couldn’t walk. I was pissed at the universe.

I was crying in a stairwell because I didn’t know what to do. One of the sous chefs, my pal and confidante Jack, came in and calmed me down. He backed me up and helped me get myself together. He reinforced that we worked at a place where jerks reigned supreme and we could survive by being better than anyone else there. (He was great for my ego.)

I left there, limping, but Marissa never noticed.

The next morning, at 5 AM, my ankle was so swollen, I couldn’t fit it into my safety shoes. I went into work wearing gym shoes, hobbling as best as I could, and after an hour, Marissa took note of my shoes.

“Why aren’t you wearing your safety shoes?” She demanded.

“I sprained my ankle and can’t walk very well. It’s so swollen that I can’t fit my foot into the safety shoe comfortably.”

“Well, you need to wear them. Go put them on now.” She looked at me, impatiently, as if I was her 7-year-old daughter.

“Marissa, they won’t fit.” I was almost crying. I was in a ton of pain, and trying to work through it, though I really had wanted to call in sick… “I can’t wear them.”

She stared me down, scrutinizing me,”Well, if it’s that bad, maybe you should just leave.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Secretly, my 4th of July dreams were coming true…sort of, “I…uh…”

“You know what, Chrissy? Just go. If you can’t walk, and it hurts that bad…just go home. We’ll see you tomorrow.” I didn’t trust the tone of her voice, but I decided that I would leave anyways.

So I left. It was the 4th of July; I managed to not be at work, but I couldn’t go out and enjoy the day. I set myself up in bed for the majority of the morning and afternoon, I watched the Mr. Darcy version of the good Pride and Prejudice (in which I fast forward to all of the Mr. Darcy parts), and waited until the fam showed up for a BBQ. I didn’t get to go see the fireworks with my pals at the Taste; I had to sit with the parents at their friends’ house because I couldn’t walk, but I got to eat potato salad and watch fireworks.

I found out later that Marissa was walking around all day telling the staff (MY staff. MY employees.) that I had probably sprained it in a drunken stupor when I went out the night before. I may have had my moments, but that certainly was not one of them. And really…who was she trying to kid? She was the biggest lush of us all.

 

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!