oh crap.

So, I went to the doctor this morning. Technically, I went to the Urgent Care facility because the doctor was out on jury duty. So instead I got urgent care, which apparently means "we'll treat you sometime within two hours."

Then I continued my luck of getting hot young male medical students to examine me. This one wasn't quite as hot or fun as the allergist that told me to remove my shirt, but he did alright for himself. Then he brought in the real doctor, who asked me exactly the same questions and poked exactly the same places.

Then, they said, "We'd like an x-ray." I asked why. They said it could be fractured and they'd like to rule it out. So I go back out to the waiting room for radiology, which is also an "urgent" operation, and eventually get called in to the sub-arctic x-ray room.

A very Hilda-looking radiologist asks "Is there any chance you might be pregnant?"
I say "Don't you need to have sex for that?"
Hilda smirks, unamused.
"No," I tell her. "No chance."

She then instructed me--and this is the most traumatic part--to remove my toe ring. My toe ring has been on my foot since...well...at least six years. It's never once been removed. People couldn't believe I would play volleyball or jog with it on, but I just never felt it. Until today. Trying to squeeze the ring over the fat tip of my toe was not the most comfortable sensation. Hilda offered me soapy water, but I just ripped the damn thing off. It's the end of an era.

So the x-rays were taken, which is always entertaining to me. "Bend your knee. Relax your foot. Lift your shin this way. Now don't move." These technicians put you in the most unnatural, impossible positions, then tell you not to move. Meanwhile, your body goes into Hyper Active Quiver Mode just to sustain the position.

Anyhow, the doctor says the x-rays are inconclusive for ruling out a fracture, which he thinks I may have. So now I need to get a CAT Scan. But the real kicker? He wants me to stay off my foot until the CT comes back.

"Stay off?" I ask.
"Yes."
"How?"
"With crutches, of course."
"Crutches? Crutches are not really practical. I have a ten minute walk to the subway, twice a day."
"Is there a bus?"
"Yes, there is a bus." But I don't want to take the bus because not only is it slow and crowded, but it doesn't take me past the fire station, where every morning the fire boys have the main bay door open, and they sit and sip their coffee and coo at the women who are cooing at them. It's the reason I get up in the morning.

But alas, instead I have crutches. Shitty clanky rubber-smelling crutches that I must use to navigate the city streets and subways, and wrestle with to get through turnstiles and gates. But, at least it finally gives me an excuse for the armpit stains on my shirt, right?

How did I get through years of being an athlete and injuring every joint on my body without ever needing crutches, but wake up one morning to mystery pain and wind up stuck with aluminum crutches that clash with every pair of shoes I own? Damn. I must be getting old.