I hobbled to the city last week for my three-week surgeon’s appointment and he was slightly vexed with my lack of skin sticking together where he slashed me open, but he was excited at the rate of my internal healing. I’m still in the moon sandal and the first attempt at getting a shoe on was a big fail, so I’m trying again this weekend. And I’m getting a ride to the beach as my friend said walking in sea water is helpful for swollen gammy feet, so I’ll be the dork at the beach in Melbourne’s winter taking my foot for a paddle. I used to do that with racehorses so I’m fully expecting to come out of the water a thoroughbred.
I returned to the day job and my manager has been collecting me and dropping me home, which has been a huge win for both of us. I get a ride and he gets my sparkling company and amazing motivation to work until about 1pm when I start missing my nanna nap.
The funniest part of the trip to the surgeon’s was at the tram stop to return to the city. I saw a young executive-type chap wearing a smart suit, shirt and tie, and one of his legs was encased in a toe-to-knee moonboot with his trousers tucked in. I didn’t think before speaking and said, “Hey, yours is better than mine!” He looked at my tits, looked bewildered and then realised I was referring to my inferior moon sandal. He nodded kindly like I was a bit of a moron and I vowed never to speak to strangers again.
But I couldn’t help myself. The train ride was stressful with two young men drugged off their nuts in the carriage. They got off at my station (of course) and waited with me at the elevator. I wanted to tell them to use the goddamn stairs because they weren’t functionally-challenged like me, but I remembered my vow to not talk to strangers. Then the taller and wider of the two tripped over an ant or something and nearly stood on gammy foot. I heard a voice yell, “Get the fuck away from my foot, you fucking moron!” Oh, that was my voice. I escaped unharmed.
Crank-o-meter: dragging my heels, and still not wearing polka dots