Before bed last night, I had to cut my skinny jeans off my body.
Why, you might ask?
My only other option was to drive home from the emergency room pantless.
While I support the anti-pants movement more devotedly than any political movement, driving home partially naked in the wet, chilly weather with a cumbersome semi-permanent splint on my right foot sounded like a surefire way to cause an accident. Or an awkward arrest for indecent exposure.
So after navigating home, I murdered my dark blue skinny jeans with cheetah handled kitchen shears.
What exactly led me to the emergency room and first degree denim homicide?
I wish someone could tell me because the events leading to the crime are fuzzy in my mind.
Does that mean I can plead temporary insanity?
Or at least get dropped to negligent pantslaughter?
Here’s my confession through self examined blog deposition.
The exposition of this murder thriller begins with a book . . . honestly.
After blowing bubbles with Little Thing and picking up palm tree debris from the yard on Sunday afternoon, I cozied into my bed for a book date with Leigh Bardugo’s Crooked Kingdom.
When I reached a good breaking point, I stood to stretch. The ball of my right foot twinged upon contact with the hardwood floor. It felt like a Cheerio or sticker were stuck to the bottom of my foot.
I sat back down on my bed to remove the unwanted hitchhiker and flipped my foot.
Instead of seeing the expected trash attached, I saw a bubble of my skin ballooning into a tiny island on my foot’s sole.
That’s weird, I thought.
Then the swelling began with gusto, and it oddly didn’t hurt.
I vacillated between icing it and hauling my booty to Urgent Care.
I didn’t want to hobble in and come off as a dumb blonde, but that’s what happened.
After X-rays, I left Urgent Care with a contusion diagnosis and a pat on the back from the nurse practitioner that said, “You poor stupid thing; thanks for wasting my time.”
As the bruise blossomed and kaleidoscoped my foot’s side into an aurora borealis of blacks and purples, I limped through Monday with the swelling receding by Tuesday. The pain felt no worse than the normal constant static of fibro pain.
Yesterday in misguided brazenness, I sported low heeled black booties to work. By day’s end, my foot’s left side reached hobbit foot level ugliness. It throbbed, and nausea hit me with every step. It felt twelve different kinds of stabby stabby throbby throbby.
I googled my symptoms. Irrationally, I convinced myself I had a blood clot.
When six o’clock hit, I gave into the pain.
Fearing pulmonary embolism, I drove myself to the emergency room. The x-ray technician there assuaged my blood clot fears by assuring me deadly ones cannot develop in feet. She admirably held a straight face through the duration of our conversation.
My temporary mollification transfigured into mortification when another ER tech entered with fittings for a splint.
I looked at my skinny jeans and side-eyed the slab of malleable bulky plastic thingy she was saturating with water.
“Is that permanent?” I asked.
“No, but it’s permanent until you see the orthopedic surgeon.” She shrugged.
“What about my pants?”
“Unless you want to drive home naked, I suggest you cut them off when you get home.”
To add further insult to injury, the ER doctor returned with his diagnosis: a sprained foot with a possible tendon tear.
How could I sprain my foot and tear my tendon BY DOING NOTHING?
He explained that when muscles are relaxed it’s not unheard of to damage them by simply stepping down.
So there you have it folks.
I’m probably the only person on the planet to have ever sprained her foot because she was so relaxed from reading, ending with the denouement of skinny jean assassination.
But is this the resolution, or merely the ending of blog one in a series of posts?
This lovely turn of events coincide with a pre-planned solo trip to Chicago over the Mardi Gras holiday. I fly out Saturday. Chiberia is supposed to get a foot of snow on Friday, and I’ll more than likely be rocking crutches during the duration.
What could go wrong?
WHO CARES? THIS GIRL HAS HAMILTON TICKETS!!!
(P.S. Little Thing can’t be bothered with saying crutches. She’s deemed mine “those squeaky things.”)
Also, think happy thoughts for me tomorrow while I’m at the orthopedic surgeon.
Mrs. Ram's Jams 