Olympic Crisis- Ankle Watch 2010

The Next Family

By: Ann Brown

Ann Brown

Man down! Man down!

And by “man”, I mean, me.

And by “down”, I mean I hit my ankle against the metal frame of my bed during elimination trials last night and I am injured. INJURED, I tell you.

I had to take Advil this morning, just to be able to sit down and write this post. TWO Advil. And a bagel and a half since I was getting up anyway to get the Advil. Light schmear. I am in training, after all.

If that sentence doesn’t make sense to you, go back and read my previous post. I don’t have time to catch you up – I have serious rehabilitation to do. I am going up against some strong figure skaters this year and I have to be in tip top shape to compete. It’s a cutthroat world out there for overweight 55 year old sock skaters performing in their bedrooms while watching the Olympics on TV. Just Bedazzling my pajama top is a part-time job this week. I’m thinking of calling in some Disney cartoon mice to help me sew. And maybe do a little light cleaning and water the plants while they’re at it. It’s okay to exploit cartoon mice, right? Oh, and perhaps they can give me a discreet little wax, if they are girl mice. Those skate skirts can ride up pretty high.

My ankle is so sore to the touch. This could prove to be exceedingly distracting. It’s hard enough to keep my mind on my routine, what with having to sidestep Molly’s dog bed, Robin’s dirty laundry on the floor, old issues of Cooking Light and Molly’s collection – updated hourly – of hairballs and drool. Did I tell you that I slipped in her barf a few weeks ago? Oh God, it was horrible. I was skating around my room and I suddenly slipped in one of those slo-mo kind of falls, you know? Well, I got up and I was so fixated on the fact that I didn’t hurt myself, it didn’t occur to me to wonder why I fell. It wasn’t until, I swear, like fifteen minutes later that I absent-mindedly ran my hand across my legging and felt something wet, and then I went to more closely investigate the floor. You know, there were times in my life when I’ve gone a little bit wild but I really never thought I’d end up being the kind of person who falls into dog barf and doesn’t even realize it. Hunh.

My short program requires more energy than I am used to exerting in the three years between Olympics when I sort of let myself go, in the sense that I mostly lay around, overeat, and catch up with my stories. My long program requires energy to the point of my not being able to breathe, resulting in my becoming light-headed and laying down on Molly’s dog bed until I am fairly certain that I am not going to die right then and there in my ratty old cotton briefs, Bedazzled flannel pajama top and socks. Oy. There’d be no amount of PTS therapy long enough to help the young paramedics expunge that image from their impressionable minds. I bet at least one of them would go gay on the spot.

Certain members of my family are prone to fainting, myself included, so I am taking no chances on my hard bedroom floor. I have strewn pillows throughout the room so I can grab one or two when the vapors hit me and I know I am going down. I’ve actually been thinking about working that into my choreography (double spin, thrust arms to grab pillow, smile, pass out, come to, lean up on elbows, pose, smile) just in case. Best not to make a whole deal over it, right? My son started to pass out in court the other day and he just said, “excuse me, Your Honor, I have to lie down now”. And then he stretched out on the floor of the courtroom, asked his client to hand him his file and conducted the rest of the hearing from under his table. This is a true story. And he won his case. As he told me on the phone after-wards (this is truly the kind of story a parent only wants to hear after-wards), “Guess I’ll be a kind of David E. Kelly character around this town from now on.” That’s what I call not making a whole deal about it.

But back to Anklewatch 2010.  This is serious. If I cannot sockskate, if I am doomed to merely watch the figure skating competition from my couch, like the rest of the global hoi polloi, well, I may as well just coat my head in olive oil, sprinkle it with salt and pepper and stick it in the oven at 350. My Olympic fantasy life defines me.  What else would I think about on the toilet or while waiting the excruciating two-and-a-half minutes for my microwave popcorn?

So, it’s heat and ice, ice and heat on my ankle for the next few days. Do you mind getting that for me?

Oh, and while you’re up, maybe a bagel. I feel weak.

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