Sunday, October 18, 2009

wedge o lard

Have you ever noticed, and I'm sure you have, that some people like to drink their morning coffee in a gargantuan mug that requires two hands to lift and can later in the day double as a soup bowl or even a handy portable bidet? Not me, I drink my morning cup of java (usually Dunkin Donuts dark roast) in a dainty white porcelain cup engraved with a wonderful illustration of a hen. That's just how I roll.

And speaking of rolling, it's been a long gruelling recovery since I rolled my ankle outside of Specks a month and a half ago. Even at that moment as I laid on my back kicking my legs out like a upturned bug, looking up at the curious faces of passing pedestrians, I knew that I had done some serious damage. I groaned. Sparks, my drinking companion for the evening, who also happened to be imbibing on my dime that night, had a terror struck look on his face when he saw me go down. It was not so much that he was concerned about my health, methinks, as it was the dawning realization that his beer ticket had just taken a nose dive. I knew that I had very little time before I would be immobilized in pain. Calculating my chances, we dashed into the bar for a shot and a beer and then I limped out to a taxi and did the heroic thing: I went home. Forlorn and penniless, a dejected Sparks wandered back up to his flop house digs where he ate hormel chili cold from the can and watched the knife guy on the home shopping network. In the emergency room the next morning they x-rayed my foot, ascertained that it was not broken but badly sprained, outfitted me with a orthopedic boot, and sent me on my way with crutches...and twenty Vicodin. I had a physicians note that excused me from work for a week. From the hospital I made landfall on the couch about an hour later armed with my pills, my boot, my ice pack, and a cheeseburger, fries, and large fountain soda from the BurgerMeister. I had plans to write a historical novel during my down time on the couch, instead I managed to watch a lot of television, eat a lot of greasy Chinese delivery, drool a good bit, and lay in a drug induced stupor in my own filth surrounded by cast off takeout cartons and empty two liter soda bottles. I was like that dragon in The Hobbit, all laid out and bad ass on my pile of succor. It was a truly blissful time aside from the pain. The vicodin does strange things to the mind. Strange wonderful things.

Surprisingly there was intense pain and a month a half later there is still pain albeit not as alarming. I don't know if I am one of those persons who is more sensitive to pain or not. I believe the medical term is pussy. I'd like to think that I am a pretty tough customer. I can tell you this: I will not back down in the face of a serious life threatening hangover and if it looks like there is too much food on a plate I will still go for it. Pain is not something that you can share with someone. It is a private hell that others care not to hear about it or acknowledge for fear that they will get some themselves from somewhere. But as each day goes by it becomes less painful to stand on my feet in the kitchen for eight or nine hours and my ankle is not as swollen as it was before. I think my foot is a little bit crooked now but it may be my imagination. This is a lesson learned. Not really.

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