Yesterday, I went to the foot doctor to pick up my new orthotic inserts. A nice nurse trimmed them, helped me insert them into my New Balance runners and handed me a handy-dandy list of safety instructions which included a dire warning against actually wearing the devices for any length of time.
Now, I don’t know about you but, when my insurance company pays good money for something that I am supposed to wear, by god, I’m going to wear it! There are orthotic-less children in third-world countries who would be happy to have those orthotics, mister!
So, I strode out of the office with the orthotics firmly in place (three inches taller, I swear) and hit the Hellmouth for some fun grocery shopping.
Midway through the shopping trip I was using the shopping cart to support my upper body weight while dragging my legs behind me like a paraplegic; cursing those damn orthotics the entire way and thinking to myself, Self, if some woman with junked-up feet in a third-world nation actually wants these bad boys, she can have them.
It took the rest of the day to get over the resulting lower backache and feeling of numbness in my toes. And, the really great part is that I get to do it all over again today, oh, yippee. Of course, this time I will heed the dire warnings on the information sheet and wear the orthotics for only an hour or two and, at this rate, I should be totally used to them, and my new center of gravity, by Christmas. I might even like them by then. Maybe I’ll hang tinsel on them and teach them to sing carols.
And, if not, I can always wrap them up in shiny paper and send them to a third-world country, ‘tis the season for giving and all that.
Speaking of gifts, you know what you get when you leave your children behind for six days while you traipse all over a new city, drinking white wine and hanging out with fun people?
If you are Catholic or, a mother, you just answered “guilt” and, you would be correct. You know how guilt leads you to do silly things in order to compensate? Yes, well, look what guilt got the Man-Cub.
His name is Tank.
Hugh may never sleep again. But, at least my boy still loves me.
This is not an actual picture of Tank but a representation of the type of tarantula that Tank is, stolen from the Internet because, if you think for one second that I am getting close enough to that hairy bastard to actually take his picture; drugs have been really good to you.
Also, while we were gone, The Girl played in-and excelled at-her sixth-grade volleyball tournament. This is the second year in a row that work commitments have kept Hugh and me from attending one of her sports functions; talk about guilt. We're probably lucky she didn't ask for a pony.
Or, a tattoo.