down she goes

I was a remarkably clumsy kid. Even as late as college I retained the ability to spontaneously fall out of an otherwise-motionless chair. It's no accident that the only exercise machines I use at the gym are ones where my limbs are constrained to confined paths of motion. I can, and do, stumble over thin air if given the opportunity.

Today I very stupidly hurt myself, walking to the elevators from Crim. The class topic of discussion had been battered woman syndrome as a potential justification defense in homicide cases, and M., who sits behind me, was ranting on about how unfair it was to assume that a man was automatically more physically powerful than a woman.

"Come on," I told him, "if you and I met up in a dark alley you could easily take me out."

"I'm a bad point of reference." (M. is a rather buff guy with training in karate, it turns out.) "But take H., for example."

H., who is a good deal smaller in build than M., happened to be walking by at the moment. "Take me?"

"I could take you," I grinned threateningly.

"Why would you want to do that?" H. is a hugger, not a fighter.

"She'd hug you to death first," chimed in C.

I reached out toward H., pretending to punch him in the shoulder blades. "Bam. Bam. I'm committing battery on you," I joked.

"More like assault--"

And then, for no reason whatsoever, my childhood clumsiness reasserted itself. I swear I was standing still, and yet I managed to trip myself up and fall forward onto my right knee, bending my left ankle double in the process. My trusty pullman bag tipped over and landed next to me with a clatter of handle.

"Are you all right?" I. and F. were immediately there, helping me up.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, brushing off my knee, "the floor must be wet here or something." I stood back up and immediately felt a wash of nausea. Many synapses were telling me not to put any weight on my left ankle. It didn't hurt any worse than a stubbed toe (if you can imagine stubbing your ankle), but the rest of my nervous system seemed to be overreacting. Whenever my body expresses itself like this, usually it doesn't mean good news.

I rode the elevator up to the mezzanine and settled in to read my Civ Pro in the hour before class, propping my left ankle up on a chair. By the time I'd made it through York and Byrd, though, the thing had started to puff up like a pastry.

I tolerated it through Civ Pro, then realized afterward that I was limping for real. Gotta get home, I told myself, gotta get some ice. I hobbled down the nonfunctioning escalator at Civic Center and noticed, as I waited for MUNI, that I could actually feel it swelling more.

Unluckily, the 3:30 Caltrain featured one of those conductors who tsks at you -- "No feet on seats! no feet on seats!" -- even if you take off your shoes. I managed to fall asleep for part of the trip, but woke up around Atherton to realize that my ankle was now so swollen, it jiggled like a pair of love handles spilling over the top of my loafer every time the train hit a bump.

I finally made it home and got myself an ice pack, which felt like pure heaven. I've got the thing up and resting now, leaving me with only the residual ache of feeling like a total ass. What kind of idiot sprains her ankle just by standing still?

There's only one conclusion a sensible woman can draw from this:

I need new shoes.

thus spake /jca @ November 19, 2002 06:29 PM