Like a cartoon version of a concert
pianist who worries about damaging his precious fingers just prior to his world
tour, as winter approaches and the ski life asserts itself in me, I begin to
get nervous about my body. I traipse around the city fretting that I’ll slam
into something sharp or a wayward wrecking ball will take me out when I least
expect it. I worry about my wobbly ankles. Ditto my fragile Achilles,
semi-reliable knees, standard issue quads. I avoid walking under scaffolding. I
tip toe across ordinary surfaces as if they were ice. I never go barefoot. I’m
scared that I’ll break or tear something right before opening day.
On Friday, October 18 I opened the
front door of my house with a coffee in one hand, an open-faced peanut butter
and pickle sandwich in the other and my mind full of painting and drawing
problems, writing deadlines, problematic students, and a beautiful white
butterfly that fluttered above my head (a snowflake fairy?), I took two steps
out the front door, stepped awkwardly on one of the little round spikey seed
pods that fall from our Liquid Amber tree and fell forward off the front porch,
severely spraining my ankle in the driveway. I was down on the ground in a
flash with several minutes of blinding electric pain shooting from the top of
my right ankle up through entire body. My wife, Amy, the exquisite being, heard
me scream and bellow, and rushed to my aid. As she knelt down beside me I
grabbed her hand and stuck it in my mouth and started to bite down. I had no
idea what I was doing. She let me do this for a few seconds until it became
painful and then she removed it and ran inside and brought back ice, a pillow,
and a few minutes later, crutches. As a veteran of a litany of my sports injuries
over the decades, she knows the routine. I just lay there in the driveway,
unable to move, hoping no neighbors would come out for the show. It was 8am. I
was about to go play tennis with Tall John. I had sunscreen all over me.
Eventually, I rolled onto my stomach and crawled back into the house and began
four stationary days of ice, elevation, Advil, and crutches, and semi-cured the
ruined ankle quicker than usual by remaining on my back, foot above heart. But
on days five-six-seven I had to go to school and teach. Then on day-8 there was
a fundraising tennis tournament for the MAK center at a new private tennis
court in Benedict Canyon. My doubles partner, Gunner Fox, a serious badass,
wrote to me, “Can you walk? Let’s win this.” I wrote back, “Just barely. Let’s
kick ass.” My decision to participate was reinforced with a ton of Advil, a
lace-up double-wrap ankle brace, and a gentle woof of sativa. I wasn’t sure I
could bounce or pivot in any direction, but the night before the little sexy
tournament I tested the ankle by gently bopping to good songs in the garage
while I was working on some paintings, and the ankle was purple streaked and
swollen but felt okay. In the end, Gunner Fox and I lost to a strong doubles
team in the finals, in a tiebreak. One of the guys on the other team, the tall
one, was the super awesome musician Danger Mouse, of the soul duo Gnarls
Barkley. He had a high-speed serve that handcuffed us at crucial moments in the
end. It was fun (we want a rematch Mr. Mouse), but my ankle swelled up huge
again once I got home and days later it’s still plump, tender, ugly, and I’m
back to icing, elevating, though avoiding the Advil.
The moral of this story could be
this: Winter is coming or is already here, so, walk mindfully, be present,
breathe, and don’t let super astonishing butterflies throw you to the ground.
And if that does happen to you, get a pillow and chill, read quality fiction,
and laugh off the disgrace because it really is comedy. If I failed to see my
physical blunders as ridiculous no one would ever trust me again.
Amy’s black, silk,
long-sleeved winter top, used as a sleeve to hold a
blue ice pack that folded
perfectly over and around my ankle.
The words Cryotherapeutic Flex-Gel were
printed on one side of the ice pack.
Be careful, Ben.
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