May 20, 2012
The other day, my neighbor called our house asking for McIrish’s help in moving some furniture. “He’s working tonight,” I told Jorge (who happens to be wicked cute and yes, looks a little bit like Jorge Posada but even cuter), “but I’m free. And I’m as strong as a man.”
So I cantered over through the woods to his house with my son, prepared to show off my great strength and see what new furniture he’d bought. Unfortunately, my mighty muscles aren’t counterbalanced with physical grace, and I stepped off the porch and twisted my ankle. Since high pain tolerance runs in my family, I opted to walk it off. Bad idea.
Later, after we’d offloaded eight dining room chairs, a dining room table, the glass top for same and a two-piece hutch, I said goodbye to Nice Jorge and went down the path into the darkness. The second I was sure Dearest Son and I were out of sight, the limping and whimpering began. Crikey! I got home, asked my boy to take off my boot, and yeah. A sprain. Possible fracture of small bone. Magnificent bruising.
This is, I’m sure, God’s way of telling me not to be such a show-off in front of cute boys.