Wanna play a guessing game with me? YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. WAIT, YOU TOTALLY DON’T? Too bad.
So what makes a portly pregnant woman even sexier than she already is? You’re totally not gonna guess this one. Because if *I* had to guess, I’d say a black eye. Which is always in style.
But if you guessed this, go get yourself a cookie and some bourbon.
It’s my Moon Boot! And it’s hotter than you.
See, back in June, I hurt my foot and wound up in the ER. Sadly, it was not performing some amazingly heroic feats, like rescuing some adorable and fluffy kittens from a burning building or climbing up a tree to rescue Little Timmy’s kite, no, nothing so amazing.
I slipped on the fallen-over baby gate and cracked the shit out of it. It was never broken, the ER doc informed me, so I just let bygones be bygones (and so on and so on) and let it heal on it’s own.
Except that it never did. Probably, at least in part, to the 20 pounds I’ve packed on since then (I’m not fat, I’m just big boned).
Begrudgingly I made an appointment with an orthopaedic doctor in the area, while glaring menacingly at my foot as I spoke on the phone, making damn sure that it too was was aware that IT MIGHT GO TO THE DOCTOR. I tried in vain to scare it into submission and healing, but it did not work well. In fact, my foot had the audacity to ignore me. Obviously.
See, I drag my feet (get it!?! PUN TIME!) whenever I have to go to the doctor, especially a specialist, because I go to about 3,476 specialists. This makes me feel like either the sickliest person on the planet, sufferer of Munchausen’s, OR a complete and total hypochondriac.
I’m actually none of those. I just have a number of irritatingly irritating conditions that require specialists, as my GP would probably lose my phone number accidentally on purpose whenever I needed more blood work. I have, in no particular order a gastroenterologist (Crohn’s disease), an OB/GYN (crotch parasite), an endocrinologist (hypothyroidism), and now an orthopod (bruised bone, damaged joint). I also have a terrible case of gas, but that’s neither here nor there.
But, with crotch parasite in tow, I’m unable to be treated by my orthopod in a way that would normally help (read: massive narcotics) (read: awesome), so I’m relegated to a moon boot and an ice pack.
My best friend is getting married in a couple weeks, and while she asked that we wear “black strappy shoes,” I think she’s going to flip when she sees what I’ve taken that order to mean. Sorry, Ashley.
And as for me, in the meantime, I’m going to relish my pregnant and crippled status as best I can. Maybe people will let me cut in line or something. Because dude, if you can’t have narcotics, what good is being hurt?