Back in September, I fell off a curb. This is a fairly common occurrence in my life. Someday, I hope someone discovers the gene that prevents poor fools like me remaining upright when we need to. Not that it would change the fact I frequently trip over ants; but at least I, like so many others before me, would be able to loudly proclaim in that whiny, self-pitying voice we all know and love, "It's not my fault, it's genetic!" Ah yes, what a lovely dream.

After limping around for quite some time adamantly insisting that there wasn't anything wrong with my ankle and I was not, in fact, limping thankyouverymuch, I broke down and went to Student Health. The doctor was not impressed with me. "My God, that is swollen! When did you do this? What do you mean you haven't had it x-rayed yet!?" After a rather vigorous lecture about the importance of actually seeing a physician when my ankle puffs up into a shapeless, painful blob, the doctor sent me off to a specialist. The good orthopedist had a fine time playing with my poor ankle joint: "Wow, you have absolutely no ankle stability! This is really quite impressive! Look at this!" He then gave me encouraging news: "Oh don't worry, you just stretched a ligament a bit. It's very easy to fix, all you need to do is schedule an appointment for surgery." Excuse me? Apparently Dr. Orthopedist's idea of "easy" and mine have about as much in common as George W. Bush and an eggplant.

Wait, that wasn't a very good analogy, was it? Never mind.

In any case, what followed was a fairly nasty surgery - is surgery ever not nasty? - wherein the good doctor discovered that I had not, in fact "stretched" my ligament. I had torn the whole damn thing off. I could have told him that as soon as he assured me "Don't worry, it's just stretched. It's virtually impossible to tear it all the way off, ha ha ha." I come from a long line of self-abusers who never do anything half way. My uncle is the most skilled in the family - he is my roll model. Example: One day, my dear Uncle Dean shook off a freshly washed glass. Unfortunately, he did so over the dish drainer, which contained a lovely two-inch wide butcher knife resting point up. The rather unsurprising result was that Uncle Dean shoved the knife quite some distance into the side of his hand, and ended up in the emergency department. You'd think that was bad enough, but not for my family. No, somehow the hospital managed to stick a note on his chart, quite by accident, that read, "Attempted suicide." He didn't discover this little error until he arrived at work the following morning and was informed that he could not drive trucks while on suicide watch. Ever tried to get an attempted suicide taken off your records? Neither have I, but my Uncle assures me that it is a grand way to spend your time. Only not.

So anyway, where was I before I went off on that lovely tangent? Oh yes, ankle surgery. That was back in mid-December, and the reason I am bringing it up now? I can walk all by myself again! For weeks, I have been living in this stupid itchy little black brace. I even had to sleep in it, and the Velcro snagged the sheets. I hate that vile little thing. But as of today, I am free! FREE! Unless, of course, I decide to go play basketball or something, which I really don't envision myself doing. Sports balls of any kind seem magnetically attracted to my head, it makes the game somewhat less than pleasant.

So, I have been taking the time today to thoroughly enjoy the sensation of walking unencumbered. Perhaps this is why I noticed that my shoes have developed a very annoying squeak. I'm not talking about a tiny little squeak now and again; I'm talking about a shockingly loud, multi-voiced SQUEAK every time I take a step. I feel as though I am being pursued by a mob of rioting mice. All day long I have been looking around me, trying to catch people staring at me. I'm positive they were all thinking, "Good Gad, what's with that girl? Is it that hard to buy a pair of new shoes to spare us the horror of that hellish racket?" I'm certain of it. I could hear them thinking it. See their angry little eyes following me. I cannot take it anymore. The shoes must die.