Tripping

Is tripping the same as traveling? Perhaps, the way Tofu does it by ingesting hallucinogenic mushrooms. The way I do it, tumbling ass over teakettle leaving a pub on a Friday night? Probably not.

Pathetically, it’s not even as sordid as it sounds. I wasn’t even drunk, merely transfixed by my foil take-away packet. The server said he had formed it into “some sort of dinosaur” but we all agreed it looked much more like a turkey. So there I was walking towards the door, staring at the turkeysaurus filled with mediocre pizza, and completely forgot the little half step between the inside door and the outside. Over went my foot in my cute wedge shoe I was wearing for the first time this season and then came the acrobatic twist to get my arse to beat my head to the floor, as Dino-turkey spun lazily through the air. (Dinosaurs and birds are related, for the record.) My first impulse was to jump to my feet, announce “I’m fine!” and see how many points I got for form. My ankle was not having any of that, neither was the bruised and abraided leg on the other side. One of the servers ran up to offer me a chair or to do something but, for some reason, I have this anti-evolutionary impulse when I am injured to go straight home. Home alone, where there is no one to help me and, where when I fall weakened to the floor, my animals will eat me. So that’s what I did. T drove me home, W. walked my dog for me and I went to bed.

Around 2 am my lower extremities had enough of my martyr bullshit and woke me up, demanding action. I very comically and literally hopped to the car, drove to the hospital and hopped to the ER. Isn’t that why I bother to do cardio and strength training? So I can be a self-reliant moron? I got in quickly but then sat and moaned in the exam room for the next three hours. In came the nice resident we got when my friend, M., did a similar act and broke her wrist a few months ago. He prodded my ankle, receiving a few words he may never have heard before and proclaimed my ankle sprained, my other leg contused and abraided and my wrist very minorly sprained. He recommended buying an air cast to get me on my feet quickly and crutches to get me home. The gent who set up my crutches and gave a delightful cup of pain meds seemed quite alarmed at my crutching technique but I made it home to where my animals could eat me if I fell again. Stairs. Man, they are another matter. Dreadful things.

Later that morning I spazzed and hopped from the car to the medical equipment place on my crutches. W. was watching me doubtfully, certain that I was going to go sprawling and attempting, in vain, to be the voice of reason. I was somehow convinced that I would put on this magical air cast and I would be fine to go shopping, do yoga, walk the dog in Bruce Pit and do everything a gorgeous spring long weekend inspires. We waited in line at the equipment store. W. offered me a walker to sit on. NO, I do not do that. I stand. I caught him mouthing “stubborn” as he shook his head. After waiting for 30 minutes on one sore leg, with my crutches wedged up in my aching armpits and my sprained ankle screaming if my toe touched the ground, I seriously regretted my dismissal but was still much too stubborn to ask for anything. They finally got me into a chair and fitted me for my air cast. I put my foot down and WHOA, it still hurt like a mofo! “What did you expect?” asked the faces of W. and the cast fitter, “your ankle is sprained. A stupid cast won’t make the pain go away.” I was crushed. A beautiful long weekend full of plans and sunshine shot to shit by a momentary distraction.

It’s been okay. I’ve watched some classic Doctor Who, read a lot on India, coerced W. into helping me get some Korean bibumbap and watering my garden. Today I will try to get into the sun a bit. Traveling is often about adjusting your expectations to be happy where you actually end up instead of where you thought you were going.