Purple rose of Peoria

Allow me to paint a picture.

A purple and black blotch runs across the back of my ankle. It looks like a legless camel eating the hair on top of my foot. A maroon map of Australia apears on top of my ankle (I don't want to admit it, but it's closer to the color of blood). My toes are black, tiny balloons (the kind creepy clowns use for animals) except for the tips, which are red bevause I've had so much ice on them the blood can't circulate fast enough to get the temperature up on my tootsies. The hair on my toes and foot (yes, I am a Hobbit) stick up from my foot's over inflation and reminds me of a fat, bald guy's head.

That's my left wheel three and half days after pretzeling it playing football.

I thought with enough time, enough ice, enough Motrin, and enough beer, the swelling would ebb and the color would return to the natural pastiness. Instead, my body decided to teach my stubborn ass a lesson - ankle braces help more when they are worn rather than stuffed away in a drawer. To her credit, Wife said the same thing after she slapped me with said brace a half dozen times.

I have to visit a ankle doctor now. My appointment is Thursday afternoon and I still don't know what I'm going to say when he asks me how it happened. The truth just doesn't sound good in this case. Don't ask me why, but I associate playing football with kids (unless you're getting paid to play, then I associate it with beer and betting), and I'm afraid I'll get the disapproving doctor glare that I used to get when I told our family doc I tucked 20 pennies away in my nostrils and ear canals because I thought my sister would steal them if I hid the coins in a real piggy bank. This way, the little thief couldn't getaway with her scheme without a hefty pair of forceps.

I've run it through my mind a few times since booking Dr. Ripple (kind of like how the ligaments in my ankle feel - rippled) and this is what I will tell him:

"So, how did this happen, sir?"

"Well, doc, it's like this: I was givin' Wife some sweet lovin' when the trapeze in our Lovin' Chamber broke. I didn't want Wife to break her beautiful noggin' on the S&M rack, so I landed and caught her. All was well until I stepped on the back of her leather cape. Since I'm about as graceful as a skating hippo, I stumbled back, hit the greased stripper pole and fell into the baby oil pit. While exiting, I slipped again and rather than letting the legs just slip out, I tried to stop the slide and my ankle got caught under the blow-up doll. Snap, crackle and pop, and here I am, doc."

I think he'll buy that story more than hearing about me trying to recapture my grade school glories. No matter what I tell the toe tickler, though, he's going to tell me the same thing:

"It's broken and instead of having your insurance company pay for a cast, I think we'll just amputate from the nuts down."