You know when you’re in all kinds of pain/distress/some-other-life-crisis and you go to the doctor/shrink/Red Cross for relief and acknowledgement and, all of a sudden, your rescue person/agency of choice tells you you’re not that bad after all even though you hurt like a sonofabitch? And then you try to tell the aforementioned “professional” about your it’s-giving-me-the-vapors pain and he exchanges a look with your let’s-say spouse who at the time is doing Cirque du Soleil tricks with your crutches. Next thing you know, they have this male bonding moment and suddenly you’re swimming upstream in a sea of I-Am-God testosterone searching for someone/anyone to justify your feelings.
Don’t look at the x-ray technician. He’s a jerk who only converses with you when he absolutely must and when you mention to him that you’d like to have your knee x-rayed at the same time to save said time, he gives you one of those it’s-not-my-job Freddie Prinze, Sr. things and then has the audacity to tell you to wear socks with your big giant Frankenstein boot or else it will get dirty. The look on his face says it already is.
Don’t look at his assistant when he leaves the room and mutter about what a charming guy he is and wow, can I imagine his bedside manner. She feels your sarcasm but he is her boss and she has rent due tomorrow.
Above all, don’t go into the waiting room (completely sober and drug-free by the way) and announce to half the crowd that the x-ray technician is a dick (which he is) because that will make said spouse angry at you because you never know when to keep your mouth shut which will make him further prove his superiority by performing more intricate Cirque du Soleil maneuvers on your crutches.
Finally, if you happen to have a broken ankle, don’t let the testosterone twins discuss your x-ray together. Yeah, yeah, broken fibula, pulled ligaments, but “you should have seen the time when I got in the jeep accident and broke my TIBIA and then I broke it again (five broken bones altogether mind you) and had to put screws in my ankle which are still there today. Now that was real pain, pardner.” I am an invisible person living in reflected glory.
So yeah (pause while I have “Office Space” flashback) my fibula is broken and my ligaments are torn but I can stay in the very heavy Frankenstein boot (joy of joys) and even put weight on my foot because I am apparently A MASOCHIST who wants to suffer in blood-curdling screams. By the way, I tried putting weight on it and remembered all those swear words I thought I had forgotten from junior high. It was nice, in an agonizing, inhumane, Guantanamo Bay kind of way.
Ohmigod, I sure hope Dick Cheney’s wife doesn’t break one of her bones. Dick would just say,
SO?” And I betcha he can’t even do crutch acrobatics. (But he does a nice Penguin impression, hah, yah, hah, behave.)