The Bone Doctor by Wendi Rank
If you are a dedicated reader of The Uptight Suburbanite, you’ll know owner Linda recently required hip surgery. Well, I also needed orthopedic surgery.
There is just one conclusion to be drawn here. Someone is trying to take down the staff of The Uptight Suburbanite. Obviously.
I don’t know why, and it seems unnecessarily elaborate to eliminate us through our bones. But one time on All My Children, Erica Kane’s husband paid a guy to kidnap him so he could double-cross him out of the ransom money. I feel like getting a job would have been so much easier. But he double-crossed that kidnapper he hired, which prompted the kidnapper to kidnap Erica Kane’s daughter for revenge.
When Erica Kane found out, she divorced that husband. And married his brother. So let that be a lesson to you, Uptight Suburbanite bone killer. Actually, I was done in by an unruly beagle and a well-placed stick. The duo conspired to induce an epic fall. I landed on my left wrist, fracturing one of the bones in my forearm.
This is my second fall in two years. It’s taken me on a bit of a reckoning. “Have you fallen in the last five years?” queried the little iPad at my doctor’s office. When I reluctantly indicated I had, twice, my answer was highlighted in a blinking red light. “I can explain!” I told my doctor. But when that doctor is an orthopedist, and he is your orthopedist, and you both realize you have an orthopedist because your bones have not been your friend of late, well. No one is interested in your explanation.
What they’re interested in is your bone density, your calcium intake, and your equilibrium. You know, no one questioned Erica Kane when she divorced yet another husband. I mean, at all. The first time I fell, I was in a parking lot crisscrossed by school buses shuttling attendees to the fairgrounds of a World War II event. I fell into one of the bus lanes.
Despite the sharp pains in my hands and knees and the nausea roiling my belly from said pain, I checked for an oncoming bus faster than Erica Kane says “I do.” Assured of both the lack of buses and fractures, I stood and did the only thing I could think of. I drove to Starbucks. One of my bizarre, useless talents is knowing where to find a Starbucks. I can divine them as surely as Erica Kane can divine temporary spouses.
At Starbucks, I ducked into the bathroom to peel my torn jeans away from my bleeding knees. And wished I hadn’t. My most recent fall also tore the knees of my jeans. I was grateful for two recent sentiments I shared with you. One, that I wasn’t wearing my ’90s jeans, and two, that I wasn’t wearing shorts. This second fall did not bring thoughts of Starbucks. Rather, it brought thoughts of my dog. I managed to hold his leash throughout my fall. Impressive, I know.
As I assessed the damage, I was concerned with just two things: The obviously broken arm, and my dog. OK, OK. I was only thinking of my dog. I mean, sure. I was in this predicament because of him.
But he’s handsome, so that’s OK. We were far from home but next to my car. I loaded him in, then hopped in myself. No. Not really. I climbed in as gingerly as Erica Kane approaches being a singleton. I drove my dog home, then held his leash as he did his business.
Then I texted my husband to let our dog out when he got home. No. I did not tell him I’d broken my arm. This was, remember, my second fall in two years. I wanted him to actually come home. Let our dog out. And not give me the Erica treatment.
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