It seems that I am destined to hurt myself in really mundane and uninteresting ways. When I was 16 I broke my right foot literally tripping over a shoe. I've burned myself many times grazing up against too hot stoves and too scalding pans. On time, in Arizona, I walked right into a Saguaro cactus, and my mother spent the evening with a pair of tweezers and a flashlight picking spikes out of my head. Aren't family trips the best? But what I did yesterday might be the least intelligent way I've ever damaged my body. In my defense, however, do you really expect to fracture your foot by placing the thing on the ground? No? Well, apparently you need to START, folks, because yesterday I placed my poor left foot on the ground and broke it. Like you do. When you are a huge struggle.
Picture a stoplight, and a girl on a bike, wind in her hair, stains on her shirt, just trying to get to her offices to show some apartments. The girl, in accordance with the laws of Philadelphia and, you know, gravity, stops at the light, placing her mid-sized elegantly shod left foot on the street below. And it promptly crumples, pulling her body down with it. The girl feels a gentle snap. That's interesting, she thinks, and continues biking. She then shows several apartments to an older gentleman who comments that she may more may not be limping. Limping is for losers, the girl explains, and continues on her way. However, her foot seems to be swelling at an exponential rate, which doesn't seem all that normal, and when she shows it to mother, Mama Struggs says that thing is broken. Strugglemano says her foot looks FAT, which is a very Los Angeles statement and therefore can be ignored. Padre Struggle just laughs, which is way the girl asks her MOTHER, the only supportive person in the WORLD, to take her to the emergency room.
Once at the emergency room the girl is asked all sorts of questions like Does She Feel Safe At Home (yes), Does She Have An Eating Disorder (no), Is She Pregnant (given her complete lack of a love life, the girl just laughs at this one. The nurse is not amused) . X-rays are taken, a nice comforting lead blanket covering her reproductive organs to ensure that if she ever gets herself a love life she might actually be able to GET pregnant, and the break is, indeed, revealed. The girl is whisked to the orthopedist where after a brisk two hour wait she is fitted with a neat little black bootie, and told she has had a perfect break. What joy! thinks the girl, a pefect break! One does so love to achieve in all directions. She is then sent home with her black bootie, a pair of crutches, and assurances that this recovery will take about four weeks until she's back on the bike that first brought her to the hospital. In the mean time she can keep her appendage elevated, "listen to her foot" for when to start putting weight upon it, and be the fascinating spectical hopping around and sliding up and down the stairs that her family and cats will marvel upon. Oh, yes, and watch her foot turn interesting colors. If you think about it, it's really a gift!
Or a huge struggle. Any guesses as to how I'm thinking about it? And so, there you have the epic saga of how I totally broke my foot by putting on the ground. Watch out for that ground, people, it's a sly minx. When those jetpacks finally happen, I'm buying twelve. Of course, knowing me, I will probably be the first person to set themselves on fire with my jetpack. Wish me luck with my foot, Strugglenation, and with daytime television. I feel like I'm going to need it, on both counts.
Leah Franqui is a fairly interesting person/director/writer/reader/eater/drinker. She likes ugly dogs and dislikes her hair in the morning. She's a sucker for environmental causes and plays hardball with deals on chewing gum. She is a struggle.