Or ... I was dancing the tango and my high heel snapped.
Or ... there was this alligator, see, that somehow got into our garage, and while chasing it with a broom ...
But, alas, I have no such fun and wonderful explanations for why I sprained my ankle.
Here’s the truth: I was walking.
On the way to a Reds game with my family. Stone-cold sober. In daylight. On a rare sunny day. On a sidewalk bereft of icy patches, snow or crowds. While wearing my very sturdy walking shoes. And yes, the laces were tied.
Quite simply, I happened to step on an uneven patch of concrete in the sidewalk at the just-right (well, just-wrong) angle that sent me sprawling and my ankle twisting.
Ever hear the old saying, you can judge a lot about a person’s character by how they react to adversity?
Well, my reaction to this particular adversity was to spew a definitely R-rated commentary at the shooting pain in my ankle.
When my family tried to help me, I just wanted space for a few minutes. After those minutes passed, I declined offers of piggyback rides from my daughters (seriously? I am not ready for such a role reversal), although I did take my husband's arm for support. (Not that I actually needed it for support. No sir-ee.) I hobbled on to the game, put my foot up on the empty seat in front of me and had a beer. (But only because I didn't have my usual bottle of Tylenol in my mom-purse. Yes sir-ee.)
By the time we got home from the game, my ankle looked like it had caught a rogue fly ball. I had to admit that, indeed, my ankle was truly sprained.
Which just made me mad all over again, especially because, of course, it had to be the right ankle, making driving an issue. I don’t like relying on others for help! I don’t like canceling or rescheduling appointments! I don’t like taking time off!
Grudgingly, though, over the next few days, I iced my ankle, elevated it and took anti-inflammatory medicine. As the baseball-sized lump on my ankle slowly shrunk to golf-sized, I started reflecting on my reaction to this minor injury.
Why anger? After all, it was just an accident. The molecules of the sidewalk did not conspire to reach out and trip me. These things happen. Acceptance that they do would seem a more mature response. And there are plenty of people who deal with far worse, every day.
Or how about reacting by just flat-out admitting: This hurts! And then graciously accepting offers of pillows, pain killers, chocolate, arms to lean on — even piggyback rides?
The truth is that while being mature and accepting help are great responses to an annoying interruption to one’s routine, anger is probably the most honest reaction. At least initially. For a little while.
But now that I’ve calmed down and am transitioning toward a more mature attitude about this minor incident, that piggyback ride is starting to sound kind of fun ... .
Sharon Short’s column runs Monday in Life. Send e-mail to sharonshort@sharonshort.com.
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