I recently had the genius idea to go out for a jog a few nights ago that ended up in an ankle sprain that had me hobbling around, which instantly concerned me as I was only days away from flying home to southern California to visit my family and friends. Just as suddenly, my plans to run on the beach, hike in the canyons, or walk my parents’ dog were nixed.
As I told the tale of my foray into immobility to each of my parents on separate occasions, my father listened patiently with no commentary. I explained how I wouldn’t even be sustaining this injury in the first place if the teenage prick in front of me on the sidewalk that evening had just bothered to speed things up while texting and skateboarding simultaneously. That alone would have prevented me from having to pass him and later roll my ankle. When it appeared that I had finally stepped off of my soapbox, he solemnly quipped,
“At least you can board your flight earlier since you can’t walk now.”
My mother on the other hand, didn’t seem to be comprehending the nature of my trauma. As I waited for her to return from a hair appointment my first morning back to see a physical therapist, my patience slowly turned to panic as I watched the clock continue to tick with no sign of her return. When I finally got in contact with her, she instructed me,
“Just start walking out toward the main road and I will meet you to take you to your appointment!”
Sure, let me just start walking out on my sprained ankle so that I can go to my physical therapy appointment to have my sprained ankle checked out.
Mama Kim maintained her cool-as-a-cucumber composure when I wistfully acknowledged that I’d just have to wear flats to a friend’s wedding over the weekend.
“Oh, you can wear heels if you’d like. But I won’t be paying for your next visit to the physical therapist.”