A Freak Dancing Accident
I have said it before, and I will say it again, fall is a ginger’s time to shine. Unless, of course, that ginger breaks his foot in a freak dancing accident.
After spending the better part of two weeks tending to an injured paw, I have become stained with regret. The sheer number of outfit opportunities I have missed this season is unforgivable. Typically, this time of year, I would be tying up the laces on my chestnut brown loafers, and leaving the last button undone on a cute walnut cardigan. Instead, I find myself dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. The horror! The horror! My beloved foot is strapped into a grey prison called a fracture boot, and I cannot strut without it.
“Yes, hi! I was just wondering if you could tell me whether you have this boot in a different colour?” I asked the nurse at the emergency department. “I am thinking perhaps a cerulean blue shaft with gold leaf straps.”
Before I knew it, the nurse thrust a pair of crutches under both my arms and showed me the exit.
Outside, my dear friend Wanda was waiting in her 2012 Barcelona red Toyota Corolla. After helping me into the passenger seat, I wasted no time getting down to business.
“You do realize we are going to have to spin this?” I checked my phone. Two new likes on Instagram, one memory notification on Facebook, and an email from Sleep Country.
“Serving tables at night, and assisting my folks during the day, I felt like a dutiful son.”
“Spin what?” Wanda asked, pulling on to Burrard Street.
“THIS!” I pointed down to my new footwear. “Now I can control the socials no problem. I am just going to need your help controlling the narrative at work. No doubt the other servers will be after my section the second they realize I am out.”
“Rugged,” Wanda turned on her right signal. “I am being completely honest when I say I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Meeting her puzzled glance as we headed west down Davie, I realized I already had major communication problems.
“Oh Wanda!” I cried, as we drove past the dance floor of my demise. “No can know the truth about how I broke my foot! It can never get out that at 37 years of age, I mixed rosé with tequila before sailing off the stage at the Cross Swords! We must come up with a story that inspires care and affection, not judgment and concern.”
Weaving on to the colourful streets of the West End, I noticed for the first time how muted the palette of fall is this season. Usually, the trees are exploding with leaves the most vibrant shades of red, yellow, and orange. This year, however, because of the heat and drought, the autumn foliage is a pale version of itself.
“I got it! We can tell people that I injured myself hiking Cypress!”
“No one’s going to believe that.”
“Gosh darn it! I don’t even know how to hike! One time, though, I did fall up the stairs racing towards a sale at Club Monaco. So, there’s that.”
“Why not just tell the truth?” Wanda reasoned. “It was an accident. There is no shame in that.”
Pulling up in front of the Fox Den, I was struck by the strangest sensation of silence.
At the end of August, when Mama and Papa Fox flew in from the mid-west, I knew I had my work cut out for me. As soon as the surgery to rebuild my mom’s foot was complete, the race was on for the next six weeks. Coming out of the gate, I was giving the role of ‘caregiver’ the performance of a lifetime. Serving tables at night, and assisting my folks during the day, I felt like a dutiful son. What I lacked in offspring and a promising career, I made up for with cooking and finding Dr. Phil on the television.
Then as the race went on, and Mama Fox started to recover, I started to slow down. Stumbling over my feet, I woke up one morning and realized the error of my ways: this is a marathon and not a sprint. With two weeks to go before the finish line, I knew I had no choice but to rest. And so, managing to get a busy Friday night off work, I set about getting my life back in order. I cleaned my apartment, did the laundry, shopped for groceries, balanced my chequebook, and cooked a nice dinner. Settling into a quiet night with my DVD collection, I poured a glass of rosé and smiled at the thought of an early bedtime.
Then, just as I was about to crawl into bed, I could hear the faintest siren song begin to play in the back of my head. Fifteen minutes later I was on a dance floor. An hour after that, I crashed.
