When Al Roker was asked how many snow storms we would have this winter, he was rumored to have responded with “eighteen or nineteen.” In early fall, his remarks were met with laughs. But just about every morning when we turned on the radio this winter, the forecast was SNOW. Who would have guessed it. I’ve always wanted to take up skiing; I just never thought it would be on my own driveway. Having lived in New York my whole life, I thought I was used to this whole snow and ice thing. I hate to admit it but I got a little cocky. I bounded down the driveway to get the mail. Why the bound you ask? I’m not exactly sure; I just might have been in that kind of mood. So as I bounded, I hit some ice and went ass over teakettle. I think we’ve all done this before. I felt like Kramer on a freshly waxed floor with ball bearing shoes.
The time between the slip and the fall seemed like that week in English Literature when we went through Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queen. For anyone who hasn’t read it, it is The New York City Marathon and the Super Bowl, with a touch of Death Valley on August 15th at 3pm. I could have gotten my PhD in microbiology in the span of time between floating above the ice-caked driveway and landing with my entire 190lbs on my ankle.
I consider myself pretty tough. I run, I lift weights, and I can unscrew most food jar tops without help from my girlfriend. But when I hit the ground, I screamed like any of the actresses in the horror movie of your choice. When I lifted myself up and tried to find my dignity, I realized it had headed up the block and was making a right turn at the stop sign. The ice on the driveway was this industrial strength composite which was probably created in a German laboratory just outside of Stuttgart. I don’t need a snow shovel in the morning, I need a Zamboni. Someone tell Al Gore that global warming isn’t melting this ice fast enough. Over the next four hours, my ankle went from just bruised to obviously sprained to definitely broken; so much for my tap dancing career.
I’ve broken a few too many bones in my life. Some would say I’m clumsy; I would prefer to spin it by saying active. My active lifestyle has forced me to be somewhat inactive, at least for the next six weeks.
The doctor put a cast on my leg. The downside of having a cast is that I now have to listen to everyone’s broken leg/broken ankle/broken heart story. Most people don’t even ask what happened to my leg, the just launch into their account as if they’re George Carlin talking about airline travel. There is an upside to this whole scenario. Yep, the door opening. As soon as the crutches come into view, the crowd parts and apologies come flying for being in the same state as me. People who cut me in line at the post office on April 15th now open doors for me. People who had previously sideswiped my car and given me the finger leaving the church parking lot on Sunday, now step aside as I move through an automatic door. As I walk into the supermarket, the workers on the front end offer to carry me around the store so I can get my shopping done. I politely decline when I see the motorized shopping cart. Although I do enjoy being one of the chosen few cart people, I never thought I be in one of them at this age; I figured I had another fifty years of walking left in me. But there will be no walking in my near future. I like to go to New York City quite often, sometimes once a week. I’ve had to scale those trips back as crutching around doesn’t mix so well with the Manhattan. On my last trip, I ran into Al Roker. He shared his broken leg story and I told him I loved his broadcast. Then I wished him luck on his next show and I told him to break a leg.
a decidedly myopic rehashing of the not so obvious... Seinfeld should have thought of it
