Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Just When Things Were Going Well

I am convinced there is an imp, a gremlin perhaps, following me from place to place, just waiting for the best time to strike. The best time being, of course, whenever I think I have things under control.

Oh, silly, silly, me for allowing optimism to raise it's pretty little head.

There I'd be, foolishly allowing hope to rub against me like a cat loving on a catnip-filled mouse, fully confident that I would beat whatever deadline was looming, when...POW! The gremlin smacks me upside the head with a hefty dose of reality.

This happened to me just last week. Now, I'd been having trouble with my left foot for a couple of weeks. Nothing terrible - it's not like I couldn't walk on the damn thing. It hurt enough only to be annoying. I figured I'd pulled a tendon or strained a ligament or something, and ignored it, trying to concentrate on the many tasks awaiting my attention. I had edits to do on my upcoming anthology, Fifty Gays of Shade. I had swag to finish for Gay Rom Lit, a convention/retreat for GLBT-romance writers and readers taking place in Albuquerque in two weeks. I had postcards and book covers to design for a short story, Zero's Fist, that I was putting up on Amazon (it had gone out of print a year or so ago, and I was tired of it collecting dust on my desktop). Not to mention the dozen or so works-in-progress I have, all piteously crying for my attention.

Anyway, there I was, working feverishly, feeling more and more confident that I would finish my work in a reasonable amount of time, when for some strange reason known only to the WTF gods, I decided to get my foot checked. Maybe it was the fact that it still hurt after two weeks, or maybe it was because the fucking thing kept swelling up and I couldn't fit it into my brand new, awesomely cute cowboy boots (most likely the latter, and by "most likely" I mean definitely), but I turned to the hubs and said, "I think I should go to the foot doctor."

It was the announcement, evidently, he'd been waiting for. He jumped up, donned his superhero cape, shouted, "To the bat-phone!" and raced into this office. He must've used his super power of persuasion on the doctor's office staff -- usually, you need to wait at least a decade to get in to see a specialist -- because before I could blink, I had an appointment with a podiatrist for two days later.

At this point, I was still confident I could complete my work in a timely fashion. I was certain the doctor would find nothing wrong with my foot other than a strain or sprain. I'd get a dose of meds, maybe an ace bandage and a warning to stay off the stilettos, and go home.

Well, I was right about the ace bandage and stiletto parts, at least. Not so much on the diagnosis.

I should have known better than to remain optimistic. It only instigates the gremlin.

I was in the x-ray room when the tech paused and looked at me cockeyed.

X-Ray Tech: Could I ask you a question?

Me: Um, sure.

X-Ray Tech: How old are you?"

Me: Why? Are you serving alcohol along with my x-rays? Great idea, by the way. I'll have a cranberry vodka, hold the cranberry.

X-Ray Tech: Uh, no. I was just curious. You look good.

Me *blushing*: Well, thanks! I've been on a diet. Lost forty pounds so far. But to answer your question, I'm fifty-two."

X-Ray Tech *looking crestfallen and not at all impressed*: Oh. That explains it, I guess. They had your birth year down as 1916.

So, either I look really, really good for 96, or really, really bad for 52. Fucking gremlin.

In any case, the doctor read my x-rays (no doubt marveling over the 96 year old infrastructure and ready to call the folks at the Journal of Medicine and Ripley's Believe It or Not until the X-Ray Tech informed her of my real birth date), and determined the injury was not a sprain or a strain.

It was broken.

Fucking malevolent, asswipe gremlin.

I left the office with my foot encased in a Frankenstein's Monster-esque hard-plastic boot, looking a lot like Optimus Prime's mother caught in mid-transformation.

Well, on the plus side, I guess I don't need to worry about squeezing my foot into my new boots for a while. On the other hand, I'll be stomping around GRL in Albuquerque wearing my Transformer-meets-Frankenstein's Monster boot on one foot, and a brand new, awesomely cute cowboy boot on the other.

In any case, it all set me back a few days on my schedule. Now, I'm banging on my keyboard, trying to play catch-up.

I may actually do it, too.

I only hope the gremlin isn't watching.


  1. Copycat. Also, can't wait to see you, lovely. :D

  2. I can't wait to see you, too! And if you didn't want me to copy you, you should've kept your broken foot cooties to yourself. :P

  3. Ooh, I sympathize. I broke my 5th metatarsal bone last December, and spent 6 weeks in one of those lovely plastic boots. Although at the time I did think it was quite lovely, because it made my foot hurt *soooo* much less. I could actually bear to step on it.

    Two pieces of advice. Pick a shoe to wear with it that has a sole and heel combination that is roughly even with the thickness of the cast, so you're not walking lopsided. Work boots were about the right height for me.

    See if you can get a temporary handicapped parking sticker. You don't have to use it all the time, but there will be occasions where you'll really want it. The mall parking lot just before Xmas, when you drove yourself, for example.. I didn't do this, and wished I had.

    Oh, and expect flying with it to be entertaining. The nice TSA folks will want to take a swab to it to be sure it isn't explosive.

  4. *blinks* Because that's exactly what I'd want to be wearing on my feet...explosive footwear. ROFLMAO! Thanks for the advice, Kathyrn!

  5. Kiernan, I am looking forward to seeing you again at GRL, new fashion accessory and all :). And I cannot wait to see your cute cowboy boot too!