Traditionally, pride goeth before a fall. As you well know, however, I scoff at tradition, and in my world last Wednesday, pridefulness and falling occurred simultaneously.
A single mistake started it all: I should never have let a pair of first graders conduct a business transaction. One moppet sold another an orange squishy ball for a quarter, and the overjoyed shopaholic couldn't wait to play with his new toy. At half past three, he started tossing it around on the playground and promptly got it stuck on a tall platform. "Emily!" said moppet bellowed from several yards away. "Can you get this down?"
I approached the platform, which was shorter than a basketball hoop but taller than my natural reach. I planned to prod at the ball with a stick until I remembered that we're not allowed to play with sticks at school. Can't set a bad example for the children, now, can I? A second plan slowly came together: "I'll jump up just to get a sense of where the ball is and try to knock it toward the edge of the platform. Having performed this reconnaissance, I'll leap again to actually grab it and bring it back down."
Reaching the waiting boy, I stretched my right arm far above my head and tried my best to achieve the kind of vertical you only see on basketball courts. To my complete and utter shock, I grabbed the ball on the first try. Successful, triumphant, and, yes, proud, I landed on the blacktop.
Now, since I don't usually perform leaping motions at work, I was unwise in my choice of shoes for the day's activity. A pair of platform flip-flops adorned my feet, and as they touched down the left one turned slightly, sending a minimal twinge through my ankle. I restored the ball to its rightful owner and limped delicately away, somewhat embarrassed but pleased with the outcome overall. "I'll just walk it off," I decided, and I did. And that was that.
Or, more accurately, that was that until a quarter to eleven that night. Going from one celebratory establishment to another with birthday girl Mallory, I remarked, "My ankle hurts a bit. How odd." As the evening ticked along, I requested a glass of ice from our waitress and proceeded to ice the offending appendage in my barstool. By the time Mal and I were ready to depart, I was limping noticeably and complaining incessantly. Such a stoic, I know...
Upon arriving home, hopping and crawling about in an effort to avoid both making disrupting noises and causing further pain, I ransacked the cabinets for pain medication to no avail, wrapped a kitchen towel around a hard ice pack, and elevated my rapidly-cooling limb on both my pillows. A visit to the clinic the next morning confirmed the somewhat obvious: 'twas a sprain that caused the pain (HA!). When the doctor found out that I was a childcare worker, he was a tad flummoxed. "If you could just sit at a desk, I would prescribe ice and ibuprofen. Since you have to be on your feet, though, I guess I'll give you this." He pulled out a huge knee-high velcro-and-foam immobilizing boot. "Wear this for four days." Listing slightly to the right, as the boot boasted at least an inch-and-a-half platform sole, I exited his office and headed in to work.
All is well again now; as of this morning I was both swelling- and boot-free. Let this be a lesson to ye suffering from pridefulness, however; it may take seven hours or so, but the fall shall smite thee in the end.
