One month ago, I fell off a skateboard and broke the fourth metatarsel of my left foot (Anagram: Fractured fourth metatarsel= Cart halt! Ram, rut! Toe suffered). I would never go so far as to say I was skateboarding, but I was, for some unfathomable reason, on a skateboard—for all of maybe three seconds, until I wasn’t anymore.
My big toe and its tallest neighbor have maintained their ability to wiggle as they please, but the last three cannot be persuaded to follow suit. They huddle together, still dumbfounded from shock, or perhaps organized in silent protest against their violent mistreatment. The isolated movement of just the first two toes looks unsettling and unnatural—impossible, I am fairly certain, for an unbroken foot. Feel free to try.
I was hopelessly awkward on crutches at first, and the underarm chafing was unbearable (the secret to avoiding this unpleasant state of affairs, as I eventually surmised, is to not rest on your armpits at all, instead supporting your weight through your hands). I always had a sneaking suspicion that my disgraceful lack of upper body strength would get the better of me one day—my inability to open a pickle jar, let alone do a single pull up, has been a life-long source of shame—and it certainly did. At the end of every day for the first two weeks, I would crawl out of my clothes, stiff and sore, whimpering like a wounded dog, every joint, every muscle aching… hands, shoulders, neck, arms, leg, hips, back: a clunky, clanging bundle of broken parts. I would sit on the cold, hard floor of my college dorm room and gingerly peel off my jeans, groaning in misery as I lifted my arms slightly to shimmy out of a shirt. Then, naked and grateful, I would collapse into bed and heave a deep sigh of relief: “Thank God it’s over.”
But you have to tear muscle to build it, or so I’m told, and now, after a month of torture, I swing through the air with the grace and speed of a gorilla gliding on her powerful forearms. It is remarkable—I never would have taken the initiative to go to the gym or anything drastic like that, but thanks to being crippled, I have developed the triceps I thought I would never have.
In commemoration of this miracle, I have started a list:
The Silver Linings of Crutches
1. Number of push-ups today: 32
Previous record: 5
2. The look on people’s faces when you poke them from five feet away and quickly look like nothing happened.
3. Conquering my phobia of elevators.
4. Instant context for social interaction. I have had more conversations with strangers in one month than probably the rest of my life. When I go out, people buy me drinks. I have never looked so approachable.
5. Losing five pounds by eating only what I can carry out of the dining hall with my teeth.
6.“Here, let me get that for you.” “Can I take your bag?” “Do you need help with that?” “Let me carry your lunch, dear.” “I’ll get that door for you.”
7. Newfound appreciation for the many varied feats of FEET:
walking, spelunking, hopscotch, climbing trees, showering normally, skipping, out-running a bear, every sport, tap dancing, nervous pacing, jumping rope, DANCING, playing drums, harp, double bass, piano, etc., leaping over puddles, yoga, roller derbies, jazzercise, loping, stripping, swimming, playing footsie, riding a bike, leaving footprints, bowling, marching into battle, helping other crippled people, squashing grapes in a barrel, jumping for joy, receiving foot rubs, karate, pretending to be a penguin, tightrope walking, trapeze art, foot modeling, hiking, driving, diving, loitering, acting (unless you play someone without feet)
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