Can I Keep The Shorts?

When I do something, I do it right.
It was swollen. Large. Red. Ugly. Warm to the touch and a bit shocking to discover this morning after three days of icing. No better. I was sick of it. It looked like a blood clot in my leg and I felt sick when I touched it. I called in to work and went straight to the doctor who took one look at it and said (and I quote) "Oh my God. You have to see an orthopaedic surgeon TODAY."
Is it a blood clot?
"That was my first thought," he said. "But...hmmm...I don't think so but I'm not absolutely sure."
Three hours later after x-rays and a drive with my mother across town and a stop at Sonic Burger because she wanted a chocolate milkshake at a time like this, I meet Doctor Doom. My mission? To make him smile. I can take disaster as long as someone's smiling. He sat down with the pictures. I thought my leg bones looked rather attractive if I do say so myself - a thought that didn't escape my lips thank goodness - and what are those little black dots everywhere in my abdomen? Hmmm?? Oh. That. Well. Do tell, Doctor Doom. What is wrong with me? Besides that...

"The good news is you didn't break anything. The bad news is you have torn your iliopsoas."

OH MY GOOOOoooDDD!

"What's an iliopsoas?"
"It's a very large upper leg muscle that goes all the way from here (pointing) to all the way down here (pointing)."
And we barely KNOW each other. The nerve.

By this time I am hyperventilating.
And then he began to point to the pretty black and white pictures of moi and chant some incoherent medical mumbo jumbo about hip joints and the consensual conjoining of the femoral triangle.

I knew I hurt something feminine. I just knew it. My feelings have been hurt ever since I threw that kick.
So, while he talked about what I should have done when I did what I did but didn't do and now have to do because of what I neglected to do in the first place when I threw that stupid kick and while he meticulously went over the x-rays, I sized him up.

Tall. No wedding ring. Stern. All business. Great smile. Cute.
This just won't do.

My mind has already fast-forwarded to summer vacation. And I do NOT like what I see. Instead of Godiva drinks and midnight pencil skirt frolicking I'm cozying up to a surgical nurse and a pair of steel doors with people inside trying to fix my illio? It's a sad day in the Kingdom of Bloggingham!! And who cares if I have a flat tummy if I'm limping at the pool? Who cares??!! Nobody will notice that. And nobody loves royals who limp. Nobody! It's a historical fact. Look at Napolean. How do you think he got short? The illio!!!

Foresight and common sense did not ride side-saddle with me that fateful TaeBoeing day, I'll tell ya.

I'll bet he thinks I'm a ditz.

And he doesn't even know I'm a Queen.


So I did what I always do when I don't get my way. I tried to talk him out of the diagnosis.
I didn't like that one. I never knew I even had an illipsoas until today. Can't we find an ailment that I'm at least married to in some way?

"But it's a bruise," I said. (Doctors love it when you challenge their expertise.)

"See? Why is it bruised like this?" thinking all the while that he wouldn't know a good bruised illipsoas feminine if one slapped him with a pair of blue shorts....Hmmmpf!

"That's what torn muscles look like, Miss Pencil Skirt."
I pulled up the blue shorts once again (ahem. It never hurts) trying not to let on how traumatized I was at having to wear them in the first place. He has no idea the wardrobe concessions I had to make in the radiology room to de-accessorize myself and maintain my dignity.
(yes, these are the actual blue paper shorts)"They look like a bruise?" (pointing to my...ummm..bruise)

"Well, muscle tears bleed.""Bleed???! Muscles bleeeeeed??! I'm bleeding??? In THERRRRREE??!""Of course. That's what makes the bruise."I knew that.

This is not working out at ALL like I planned.

And because I didn't ice, rest, and elevate in the first 48-72 hours (because I was busy with other injuries thank you very much) I now have to move on to the heat phase of the process. Inflammation has set in complete with a low grade fever so now I must apply moist heat several times a day. That doesn't make sense to me but OK. Oh no. The swelling will not disappear. Oh no. The bruising will not disappear. Oh no. The pain will not disappear. It will hang around for awhile smiled the voice of doom. So I asked the dreaded question. "How long will it take before I'm back to my power walking without pain?"

"Well, Miss Pencil Skirt, that will take......(are you ready for this?)...I can't say it.

Not even the thin blue shorts could get me out of this one.

But before he put away the films I made him tell me every tiny little thing on them and checked to see if my name was indeed on the X-rays. Maybe they got them mixed up. It could happen! I asked him if he checked for weird things. Weird things? Yea. Like growths and tumors and ......NOW he is laughing. This is no time to laugh, Dr. D, I am quite serious you know.

The flirting failed attempts at humor went like this. I'm sure he is still thinking about the nut case he met while in the line of duty today when he recalls...."

"Maybe the xrays are wrong. I had my earrings in ya know. And did you see anything horrible in my leg?"

"If there had been a tumor in your leg I would have seen it."

"But did you X-ray my WHOLE LEG??"

He is bemused.

"Yes."

"You did?"

"Yes.

" IF there had been a tumor in your leg I would have seen it."

"And no tumor?"

"Noooooo."

Well, at least I know what a tumor IS, I thought, and then "I'm suuuch a hypochondriac" like he hadn't figured that out yet. I put my feet back in my jeweled black flip flops and asked, "What can I do to make it better O-Silly Doctor-Of-Doom? And is there anything I could do that would make it worse?"Yes. Dynamic exercises."

"What are dynamic exercises?"

"Like TaeBo, kicking, and anything where your leg isn't stable." (making a mental note to burn that damn video and sue Billy Blanks who is no longer my hero)

"Well what CAN I do? Can I waaaaalk?"
"Sure you can walk! I want you to walk."(I'm thinking Whew! what a relief! Things aren't so bad after all.)

"Great, Doctor Doom, I'm so glad you see things my way."


"You can walk to the mailbox."That was not even a little bit funny. For an ortho man you're quite amusing you and your bones and skeletons on the wall and no personality til I walked in the door cause I'm so cute in those blue paper shorts. You know you're trying to show off! You know it and I know it! You and your ilipsoas diagnosis. I'll bet there isn't even any such thing as a ilipsoas in the first place. You just made that up!!!

He went out to dictate and I was left with a pile of crumpled blue paper and no plan for redemption. I am powerless without my heels.

I gathered what was left of my left limped leg who'd heard this entire fiasco and headed down the hallway where Dr. D stood dictating the notes for my catastrophic physical condition. It was so sad. Like two people facing off at high noon in the middle of Tumbleweed US-XRAY - our eyes met - just as he said into the little black machine, "She says she threw a kick with her right and something broke in her left..." I looked at him and rolled my eyes. He got so tickled he had to stop dictating. (I can't believe I just wrote that.)

I held up the shorts with the one part of my body that didn't hurt -my pinkie- and asked,

"Can I keep the shorts?"