And the Beat Goes On...
Friday, February 10th, 2006I have now been on crutches for over seven weeks - which works out to exactly one dog year. Even one of my co-workers recently admitted that it had been so long, he couldn't remember me ever walking. On a daily basis, several million different people approach me and groan "Oooohhh, you poor thing. How much longer?"
"Longer than it will take for me to strangle you", is the usual reply in my head.
I think I'm going to have to start wearing a sandwich board which states:
For some insane reason, restaurant hosts and hostesses seem to think I'd be more comfortable at a really high table and chair. I've thought about it, and can only grasp at vague notions of why this is logical. Perhaps most of their crippled patrons show a preference for that, and I'm somehow missing the boat, or just an anomaly. Or maybe they just don't want my big-ass leg sticking out in the aisle for waitstaff to trip over and launch a platter of crab rangoon across the room.
I am counting the days to physical therapy - relishing the thought of graduating to just a cane. Because a cane will at least free up one hand, and is great for bashing people's shins to smithereens when they piss you off.
Boy, I feel better now.
"Longer than it will take for me to strangle you", is the usual reply in my head.
I think I'm going to have to start wearing a sandwich board which states:
It was an ATV accident.While most everyone is outwardly kind (holding doors), and sympathetic ("you poor thing"), they're also driving me fucking nuts. Their hearts are in the right place, and I do appreciate it, but I'm really starting to wish I could be treated like a normal person. And why doesn't anyone want to see my scar? That's the coolest part!
I have been on crutches for 8 weeks.
I will be on crutches for another 3-4 weeks.
"Hop-Along" is not a clever or original nickname.
For some insane reason, restaurant hosts and hostesses seem to think I'd be more comfortable at a really high table and chair. I've thought about it, and can only grasp at vague notions of why this is logical. Perhaps most of their crippled patrons show a preference for that, and I'm somehow missing the boat, or just an anomaly. Or maybe they just don't want my big-ass leg sticking out in the aisle for waitstaff to trip over and launch a platter of crab rangoon across the room.
I am counting the days to physical therapy - relishing the thought of graduating to just a cane. Because a cane will at least free up one hand, and is great for bashing people's shins to smithereens when they piss you off.
Boy, I feel better now.
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