Just Call Me Klutzy K

(Dear Sister, Please allow me to use your alias for this post.)

Last night I celebrated Anna's birthday. After a rousing night of Funfetti cake and BYU Creamery ice cream, I decided that it was high time for me to head back home to "El Apartado" to attack some homework. I balanced my leftover Cafe Rio in one hand and my wallet in the other as I hopped down the porch stairs. Certain that I had reached the bottom, I looked up at the passing cars on the street and confidently stepped down from what I thought was the last step. As I fell, I thought to myself, "Oh, I guess I missed a step." I crumpled to the ground in a sad heap and hoped that the girls inside didn't hear my mishap. I was immediately aware of two things: the first was that my Cafe Rio was still in perfect condition and the second was that my ankle was no longer in a perfect condition, namely, it was twice the size of its counterpart. As discreetly as possible, I gathered up my things, unlocked my car from my position on the ground and maneuvered myself into my automobile. Luckily, it didn't take much pressure from my foot to drive home, but it was however an adventure hobbling from my car parked out in the North-40 to my apartment.

I have been trying not to play it up because as a little girl, I was the sort who would put band-aids on mere scratches, wrap myself up in Ace bandages even if there was nothing wrong with me, or wear roller-blade wrist pads pretending as though I had a broken wrist. But it turns out that trying not to limp while limping just looks weirder than actually limping.

All is on the mend now but curse my weak ankles!