I’m a child. There. I admit it.
“I don’t wanna” might be my most favorite excuse in the world. Moreover, (and what child do you know uses “moreover”?), I can find a million excuses to not do anything I don’t wanna. Facebook, YouTube, guitar playing, reading, TV, and sitting in silence are some of my favorite means of prolonging the doing of the task I don’t wanna do.
So, three weeks ago, I hurt my ankle. I don’t know how. I went to bed on Monday night, and on Tuesday my ankle was the size of a golf ball.
Now, to be fair, this is a bad ankle I had sprained in the worst possible way a few years ago, so I roll it and twist it often.
For three weeks, I have not run. (I’m a fake runner.) For three weeks, I have spent the vast majority of my time in flip-flops. (This is not news, but I haven’t had the option to change into anything else.) For three weeks, I have tried not to limp. And for three weeks, I have had multiple friends tell me to get an x-ray.
But I don’t wanna.
It smelled funny – funny strange.
“What is it?”
I mean, I heard him say “liver and onions,” but what was with the texture. And the smell. The whole thing was odd.
Oh, my dad. So simple. So direct. That was his clear way of saying, “You’re eating liver and onions for dinner. That’s it. Don’t try to get out of it.”
“Well, I’m not eating that.”
There was a flare of nostrils. This was getting serious.
“Well, that’s all you’re getting.”
He ate his food.
The stand-off lasted through breakfast two days later. I won. Cereal replaced the leftovers of liver and onions.
“I don’t wanna” – 1; liver and onions – 0.
So, for three weeks, amid claims of “It’s a hairline fracture” and “It should be healed already” and “You’re still limping?” and “Go get an x-ray,” I have stood firm in my I don’t wanna-ness.
Then, my Achilles heel…bribery and sweetness.
“Do you want to go to that clinic today after we meet? I know you don’t WANT to, but let’s go anyway!!”
During dinner last night, I had informed my sweet friend that my ankle was still bothering me, and I should just suck it up and go to the med clinic for an x-ray. “It’s the adult thing to do.”
I respond to her morning text: “Nah…no me gusta.” I’m a bilingual child.
“I know que no te gusta, but you need to be better. Let’s go!”
“You won’t make this fun with exclamation points,” I quip. Can one “quip” in a text message?
“What do you mean??!!!”
Clever. That got a smile.
“Come on!!!! It will take less than an hour! Pleaseeeeeee!”
Dammit. Why does she care that much if I go for a damn x-ray? I don’t wanna. Hmm…how.to.respond.
“Can we get pedicures after?”
I am aware that I have a hurt ankle, and I will have to be clear with my pedicure lady that she will have to be gentle, but c’mon…it’s a pedicure!
Dammit. “Then, yes.”
So, today I’m heading to the med clinic for an x-ray. Hairline fracture or not, I’m clear that I shouldn’t have waited this long. And while it took bribery to get me there, I’m still going. That’s rather adult of me.
Now, I’m gonna eat my gummy vitamins and have some Peanut Butter Crunch for breakfast. No. Really.
I’ll let you know if it’s broken.
UPDATE: It’s not broken. It’s a sprain. I am, however, in a boot. I know…it’s hot.