It's been rough. Finding pants that both go over my cast and I find visually appealing is no easy task. A stage five, first world problem. Skinny jeans? Forget about it. Looks like I'm gonna have to bring the bell bottoms back in action. I reach into the depths of my closet and pull out 2 pairs of pants: 1 bedazled flair and another khaki trouser, both dating back to 2004 (ancient I know). I lay them on my bed and stand, like a brilliant flamingo, contemplating, how will I ever make these pants look fly? I file through my brain of fashion genius and come up with outfits that turn these juvenile mistakes into present day trend makers. I sag the bedazled jeans, pair it with a deep v white t, my gold sneakers, a fly gold necklace and black leather jacket. The previously prude sissy jeans have become a little more bad ass. The khakis can play into a prep look and I can give it some shape by tucking in a brightly colored button down with an even brighter belt, add my classic loafers and a wide brimmed felt cap. BAM, a crutching Calvin Klein add.
But months of recycling the same two pairs of pants became torturous. By day two they were saggier than BA quota requires and constant laundry? Get real. So I headed to my favorite Iowa City boutique to check out some options.
The owner is working alone, we've met several times and she's always quite friendly. I grab some wool leggings, a perfect solution. She asks about my foot, I avoid the question, as I have exhausted talking about it, by telling her a little story.
Me- The doctor told me to go out and buy myself a few pairs of those Adidas snap off pants, you know the sweats with the buttons down the side. I looked up at the doctor and laughed replying, "You clearly don't know me at all." I would never live my life, for 3 months, in snap off sweats. So here I am, trying to make this faux pas more a la mode.
She thought this was hilarious. She reminisced on her time spent in a wrist cast. I concluded that someone must come out with a line for casted fashion forward folk. She agreed and found my company charming enough that she offered me a job when my foot is freed.
I politely declined, as I love my serving job, but told her I would be back in, often.
When life hands you lemons...
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
FOMO.
'The only communication device God didn't invent was gossip, and that's the most advanced technology to date. It's what they call the music of the spheres -- listen -- .'
- Sara Ruhl, Dead Man's Cell Phone (If you haven't read this, please do.)
The generation of technology has rolling admissions. Kids just keep on getting phones, younger and younger. As a member of this generation, I will admit, I love all my little devices. I need a cell phone. I'm obsessed with my computer. I'll even start a fit if the internet goes out. But is this constant tangibility to passed events, the weekends documented through pictures, for example, detrimental to our health.
FOMO: Fear Of Missing Out. Most often seen in ages 17-22. (Yes! 23 has now become a less useless age. You are less prone to becoming a fomo.) A need to socialize; an addiction to participating in constant social interactions.
Allow me to break this down for you. It's sunday morning, you and ya pals are headed to micky d's to get some ever enjoyable breakfast. 'Did you see the hideous dress that girl was wearing?' 'Remember that weird old guy on the dance floor?' You don't wanna be the only one to have missed his rendition of thriller. Then they post the pictures. (let's all take a moment and accept we're most intrigued by pictures of times we can relate to, times we can remember, and most preferably, times when we're in the picture.) 'What a cute roomie shot!' (roomie is an uncool word) But imagine, missing the group photo. Soon you will be falling off the social radar all together… No new notifications.
These fears stumble out of control, and hopefully, eventually, you find yourself (by the age of 23), in the middle of an overly amplified bar, wondering, 'why the fuck am I here.'
But if that can't happen, as a recovering fomo, I have to say this broken foot is the finest of nicotine patches.
- Sara Ruhl, Dead Man's Cell Phone (If you haven't read this, please do.)
The generation of technology has rolling admissions. Kids just keep on getting phones, younger and younger. As a member of this generation, I will admit, I love all my little devices. I need a cell phone. I'm obsessed with my computer. I'll even start a fit if the internet goes out. But is this constant tangibility to passed events, the weekends documented through pictures, for example, detrimental to our health.
FOMO: Fear Of Missing Out. Most often seen in ages 17-22. (Yes! 23 has now become a less useless age. You are less prone to becoming a fomo.) A need to socialize; an addiction to participating in constant social interactions.
Allow me to break this down for you. It's sunday morning, you and ya pals are headed to micky d's to get some ever enjoyable breakfast. 'Did you see the hideous dress that girl was wearing?' 'Remember that weird old guy on the dance floor?' You don't wanna be the only one to have missed his rendition of thriller. Then they post the pictures. (let's all take a moment and accept we're most intrigued by pictures of times we can relate to, times we can remember, and most preferably, times when we're in the picture.) 'What a cute roomie shot!' (roomie is an uncool word) But imagine, missing the group photo. Soon you will be falling off the social radar all together… No new notifications.
These fears stumble out of control, and hopefully, eventually, you find yourself (by the age of 23), in the middle of an overly amplified bar, wondering, 'why the fuck am I here.'
But if that can't happen, as a recovering fomo, I have to say this broken foot is the finest of nicotine patches.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Jimmy Johns.
You don't realize how valuable your foot is, until it's gone.
Going to the bathroom. Getting a glass of water. Forgot your keys? Oh, just run back and get them. Simple tasks that used to pass without even thinking.
I feel like I'm always starving. Perhaps it's the crutching, but I doubt they're much more exhausting than running double digit distances. I think it's a mind game. I have all this new time to think about how hungry I am, to sit in my head and dream up chocolate cakes and ice creams. But it's such a pain to be hungry, so uncomfortable (my mother will quickly tell you how fun I am when I'm hungry.) Imagine all the things you do in the kitchen to prepare let's say, a simple sandwich. All the pivoting, whether it be lunch meats or a simple pb&J, it's rough. To carry a jar of peanut butter, one of jelly and a loaf of bread in one trip is acrobat worthy with two hands and two feet; these things require multiple trips to and from the fridge. My hands can't be occupied by crutches so I resort to hopping (you should feel my right quad, my vasti are killing it). Can you see my exhaustion? Do you feel my muscles aching for a rest? My good pal Jimmy John does.
I ordered myself my high school regular, a number 16 with bbq chips. (The bbq chips are a must, in or out of the sandwich. They make my meal well rounded.) So I call him up, place my order, and realize right after I hang up that they always call you from outside and make you go to the building entrance to fetch your beloved sandwich. So I call them back.
'Thank you for calling Jimmy John's, this is Tim speaking.'
'Yes, Tim (always use one's name when trying to get what you want), I just called and placed an order for a sandwich and you see my foot is broken, it sucks I know. It would be really great if the delivery man could come right in to my door. It's apartment 1114, any key works at the front door, bizarre i know, unsafe even. But I have such trouble getting all the way out front, I'm on crutches and--'
'No problem, we'll see you soon.'
He probably just wanted me to shut up, but he did agree, and my freaky fast sandwich was delivered (as close to) right in my lap (as possible). Thanks Tim.
Going to the bathroom. Getting a glass of water. Forgot your keys? Oh, just run back and get them. Simple tasks that used to pass without even thinking.
I feel like I'm always starving. Perhaps it's the crutching, but I doubt they're much more exhausting than running double digit distances. I think it's a mind game. I have all this new time to think about how hungry I am, to sit in my head and dream up chocolate cakes and ice creams. But it's such a pain to be hungry, so uncomfortable (my mother will quickly tell you how fun I am when I'm hungry.) Imagine all the things you do in the kitchen to prepare let's say, a simple sandwich. All the pivoting, whether it be lunch meats or a simple pb&J, it's rough. To carry a jar of peanut butter, one of jelly and a loaf of bread in one trip is acrobat worthy with two hands and two feet; these things require multiple trips to and from the fridge. My hands can't be occupied by crutches so I resort to hopping (you should feel my right quad, my vasti are killing it). Can you see my exhaustion? Do you feel my muscles aching for a rest? My good pal Jimmy John does.
I ordered myself my high school regular, a number 16 with bbq chips. (The bbq chips are a must, in or out of the sandwich. They make my meal well rounded.) So I call him up, place my order, and realize right after I hang up that they always call you from outside and make you go to the building entrance to fetch your beloved sandwich. So I call them back.
'Thank you for calling Jimmy John's, this is Tim speaking.'
'Yes, Tim (always use one's name when trying to get what you want), I just called and placed an order for a sandwich and you see my foot is broken, it sucks I know. It would be really great if the delivery man could come right in to my door. It's apartment 1114, any key works at the front door, bizarre i know, unsafe even. But I have such trouble getting all the way out front, I'm on crutches and--'
'No problem, we'll see you soon.'
He probably just wanted me to shut up, but he did agree, and my freaky fast sandwich was delivered (as close to) right in my lap (as possible). Thanks Tim.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
the bionic bus.
Don't get me wrong, I value the bionic bus, crutching is physically exhausting and the sides of my ribs could use the break from the constant rubbing. But that doesn't make this bus any less hilarious and humiliating. The short bus of the college years, I'm sure you remember the small yellow bus that came around your neighborhood to pick up special needs students, this is a similar looking vehicle. It stops to pick me up pretty much anywhere I ask it to, and as it stops it sends out a booming beep. BEEP BEEP BEEP, like a truck backing up. If people didn't notice the girl hopping around on crutches before they sure do now. I try to think of it as my own private driver. Maybe a little less elegant, not quite as classy, but the same idea, it's there for me and is (almost) always private.
Today, after I was picked up we went the opposite way of class and I realized we must be picking up another passenger. We waited in front of the cozy looking house on the outskirts of Iowa City until an elder woman with a cane came out gleaming, really ceasing the day. She complimented the bus drivers braid, they were clearly well acquainted, and took a seat beside me. Her place on campus was one of a librarian. She began chatting with me freely and before I knew it we were halfway into a tear jerking story about a shooting that took place on campus in the early 90's. She poured this story onto me so quickly I didn't even have time to change my face to my 'sympathetic' look. It was a real day starter, a great pick me up.
We then compared injuries, her ability to use one cane and my need to use a set of crutches. She broke her foot years ago and was never put into a cast, hence the current cane. I was immediately grateful for medical advances. Then I pitied myself again, thinking, here I am again, relating myself to seniors. Just the other day an elderly woman was admiring my KneeWalker, my scooter that takes me further distances less painfully while supporting my foot.
One minute I'm a super athlete, relating to runners weekly and Paula Radcliffe, the next I'm up to date with every show on the food network and comparing walkers. Oh how life changes so quickly.
Today, after I was picked up we went the opposite way of class and I realized we must be picking up another passenger. We waited in front of the cozy looking house on the outskirts of Iowa City until an elder woman with a cane came out gleaming, really ceasing the day. She complimented the bus drivers braid, they were clearly well acquainted, and took a seat beside me. Her place on campus was one of a librarian. She began chatting with me freely and before I knew it we were halfway into a tear jerking story about a shooting that took place on campus in the early 90's. She poured this story onto me so quickly I didn't even have time to change my face to my 'sympathetic' look. It was a real day starter, a great pick me up.
We then compared injuries, her ability to use one cane and my need to use a set of crutches. She broke her foot years ago and was never put into a cast, hence the current cane. I was immediately grateful for medical advances. Then I pitied myself again, thinking, here I am again, relating myself to seniors. Just the other day an elderly woman was admiring my KneeWalker, my scooter that takes me further distances less painfully while supporting my foot.
One minute I'm a super athlete, relating to runners weekly and Paula Radcliffe, the next I'm up to date with every show on the food network and comparing walkers. Oh how life changes so quickly.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
well, this is different...
The Chicago Marathon was exhilarating, life changing even. People lining the streets of Chicago proper screaming for my success, causing all the hairs on my arms to (please) stand up.
Crossing the finish line with my mom was epic, I mean we didn't hug or cry or anything (although we did cheers our 312's), we're not really emotional people. But I could feel it, I knew we shared something we would never forget. I couldn't have done it without her, she said she couldn't have done it without me. It was like team building, real cheesy momentous shit.
I was feeling awesome for the rest of the week, if I had enough balls I would have bounced around the University of Iowa campus all day, everyday with my medal on, bling blingin'. Enough people told me how crazy I was to have done it that my pride was fulfilled.
Until that dangerous Saturday night that went a little somethin' like this...
12:15- I leave work. An Italian restaurant called Basta where I (used to) wait tables.
12:20- Met my roommates, Nicole and Kaytie. We head to Summit, a typical dirty college bar (also known as scummit)
1:30- We left the bar, headed home.
1:34- We were about half way home, nearing the finish line. A group of ehh maybe five young guys noisily fumble around behind us, they invited us to a party.
1:35- I declined the offer, I insist I'm too exhausted to walk so far, which apparently is not an acceptable answer. A scrawny guy picked me up like a baby and began to run with me insisting I "don't even have to walk!"
1:35.05- I looked back at my room mates and squealed "I am SO scared."
1:35.10- Scrawny guy lost hold of me and his own feet and we fumble, he fell on my foot, and I knew, immediately, I was doomed.
I think I blacked out a bit from the shock or the pain, right after this moment. Or maybe it was just too difficult to pay attention to the passing events over my own sobbing and wailing. I found out later Kaytie ran down the street one way and Nicole the other while they attempted to stop traffic and find me a ride to the hospital. One crabby cabby eventually picked us up and drove us to the student health hospital, where we would remain for far too long.
Five hours and an x-ray later the doctor walked in with an ace bandage and told me to go on home, I would be fine in a week. I couldn't walk, I could barely move, and this lady was sending me out with nothing but a little spandex. I asked a nurse for crutches, she got me a solid pair for children under 12, and I made my way out the door.
When I called my mom at 7 am, right after the hospital escapade, she was fine with my plan to go see a specialist in Coralville, Iowa, the next day. It wasn't until he mentioned the possibility of putting screws in my foot that this Coralville medical team didn't quite suffice for my mother. She hopped in the car and drove nearly 8 hours to bring me back to Chicago for a second opinion.
No surgery was needed, but i'll be in this cast for 2-3 months. Long story short, here I am....
one cast, a pair of crutches, and one kneewalker later. living life as one legged, newly awkward, college kid.
Crossing the finish line with my mom was epic, I mean we didn't hug or cry or anything (although we did cheers our 312's), we're not really emotional people. But I could feel it, I knew we shared something we would never forget. I couldn't have done it without her, she said she couldn't have done it without me. It was like team building, real cheesy momentous shit.
Until that dangerous Saturday night that went a little somethin' like this...
12:15- I leave work. An Italian restaurant called Basta where I (used to) wait tables.
12:20- Met my roommates, Nicole and Kaytie. We head to Summit, a typical dirty college bar (also known as scummit)
1:30- We left the bar, headed home.
1:34- We were about half way home, nearing the finish line. A group of ehh maybe five young guys noisily fumble around behind us, they invited us to a party.
1:35- I declined the offer, I insist I'm too exhausted to walk so far, which apparently is not an acceptable answer. A scrawny guy picked me up like a baby and began to run with me insisting I "don't even have to walk!"
1:35.05- I looked back at my room mates and squealed "I am SO scared."
1:35.10- Scrawny guy lost hold of me and his own feet and we fumble, he fell on my foot, and I knew, immediately, I was doomed.
I think I blacked out a bit from the shock or the pain, right after this moment. Or maybe it was just too difficult to pay attention to the passing events over my own sobbing and wailing. I found out later Kaytie ran down the street one way and Nicole the other while they attempted to stop traffic and find me a ride to the hospital. One crabby cabby eventually picked us up and drove us to the student health hospital, where we would remain for far too long.
Five hours and an x-ray later the doctor walked in with an ace bandage and told me to go on home, I would be fine in a week. I couldn't walk, I could barely move, and this lady was sending me out with nothing but a little spandex. I asked a nurse for crutches, she got me a solid pair for children under 12, and I made my way out the door.
When I called my mom at 7 am, right after the hospital escapade, she was fine with my plan to go see a specialist in Coralville, Iowa, the next day. It wasn't until he mentioned the possibility of putting screws in my foot that this Coralville medical team didn't quite suffice for my mother. She hopped in the car and drove nearly 8 hours to bring me back to Chicago for a second opinion.
No surgery was needed, but i'll be in this cast for 2-3 months. Long story short, here I am....
one cast, a pair of crutches, and one kneewalker later. living life as one legged, newly awkward, college kid.
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