Treadmill Travesty, part II

So where were we? Right, me falling off gym equipment. Sigh.

My parents drive me to the hospital and I remember wondering if I'm wearing clean underwear. Cause that’s my biggest concern. But whatever, not like I’m going to find me a love interest.

We get to the hospital and the waiting begins. Up until this time I had felt no pain, just confusion at how I managed to get myself into this situation. The nurse at the front desk finds my plight to be hilarious. Apparently she's never seen such bloody artwork before. I found myself secretly wishing that she'd fall off a treadmill. Then I realized, as she was a big woman, that she probably doesn't get on one of those very often. Then I felt guilty for thinking all this. Ah, the mind of a passive aggressive.

After 45 minutes of waiting around and starting to notice the pain that was my 0pen knee, I got in to see a doctor. X-Rays determined that there was no muscle damage, it was just the problem of my knee muscle being complete exposed. [Too graphic? I guess you can use this as a cautionary tale].

In comes the doctor. He was very friendly and upbeat considering the hour, and quite hairy. Ah, probably one of my Jewish brethren. He takes one look at my knee and says "Don't worry. I've taken up quilting. You'll look good as new."

Good lord. Then my mother whispers rather loudly in my ear. “He’s cute, Em, and a doctor…want me to give him your number?”

My mother, ever the pimp. And yes, please give him my number if there’s Vicadin involved. And if he can tear himself away from my unshaven legs. I answer sarcastically, "Why don't you see if he is wearing a ring first?”

She not so subtly looks down at his hand. "No ring!" She shouts.

I don't know if the doctor was deaf or just kind, but he pretended not to hear any of the conversation.

Another 45 minutes later, I'm all sewn up. It took 20 stitches to close up that war wound. Then I needed to get my crutches. The nurse, or shall I say murse, was quite a good-looking specimen. But as I watched him reducing the crutches to my pint size, my Napoleon complex kicked in and I guess I looked sad.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll get your growth spurt soon. How old are you, fifteen?"

Now, I know as a lady I should be flattered. But when an attractive dude thinks you’re young enough to be jailbait, it seriously hurts your pickup chances. Not to mention, I was 21, people! So I grabbed my crutches and hobbled off, waiting for my newly secured Vicadin to kick in.

And I was on those very crutches and an immobilizer for weeks. It was no fun, though I did master the one-legged booty shake. And sure, some people have great stories about their ridiculous scars--saving people from burning buildings, crawling out of a mineshaft, falling off the balcony where they were having sex. I don't have that. All I have is a scar in the shape of a smiley face.