“So how did you sprain your anke?” asked Lea, my physical therapist, as her hirsute arms pulled and stretched my right leg like pizza dough. “A marathon? Fun Run?”
Oh Lea, I wanted to say. You couldn’t be more wrong. See, I don’t run. Matter of fact, I can’t finish a 5k jog even if someone
else’s life depended on it. During Fun Runs, I would be in the bleachers with the nerds, the loners, and the glee club members, listening to Riki Flo on the radio and scanning the field for glimpses of armpit hair. This sprain has nothing to do with running.
But how do I tell her the real cause of my injury? Where do I even begin?
If I were to tell the truth, I would start with a description of this good looking booth model I used to see before. Half-woman,
half-vulture. Has a surly demeanor that could put most suicide bombers to shame.
It was two something in the morning. I should be in bed now, curled like a shrimp under a blue comforter, immersed in an Emily Ratajkowski dream, issuing soft snores unto the chilly darkness.
But no. Here I am instead in my car, barely awake, barely showered, barely in a good mood. I’m on my way to Rockwell where Ms. Vulture is waiting. She told me that she has something important to tell me PERSONALLY, and that she wanted to see me in thirty minutes. “You nincompoop better wow me,” she demanded.
I took Ms. Vulture’s challenge to heart. This I thought, is the perfect opportunity to impress her with my driving skills and
assert my self as the next Michael Schumacher. A Ferrari talent scout would eventually get hold of my aptitude and not before long, I’d be tearfully thanking the Formula One Grand Prix, my parents, my fans, God, and — wait, orchestra, just one more, please don’t cut me off yet — former acquaintance, Ms. Vulture.
“I can’t drive a 200MPH on EDSA right? Do you want me to die? Anyway, tungkol saan ba to?”
“I’m not allowing myself to see you anymore. This, probably will be the last.”
I saw this coming. Really. We were going out for quite some time right now and we both know that we have sh*t tons of differences.
The type of differences that are non-arguable.
“Sayang, I really thought…”
“Yeah, but I think this is better for both of us.” Ms. Vulture said, her eyeballs performing a double axle, triple lutz, triple
loop combo of sarcasm.
I left without saying goodbye. I kept on thinking – t*angina sayang. I was so mad that I wanted to hit something.
Then I saw this metal garbage can at the corner of the parking lot where I’m headed to. I thought that this will do, I just need to imagine Ms. Vulture’s face on the side of the can then I can kick it with all my strength.
So I kicked it. “%$#@*&!!!” I didn’t knew that the garbage can was no metal at all. It was made of solid cement with reinforced steel bars beneath it.
Thud. The next second, my right leg was in a galaxy of pain. But I didn’t really mind at the time because I think that I achieved the perfect shot. I’m not mad at Ms. Vulture anymore. (Well, almost perfect. I saw an old woman in the background, fleeing the scene in fear. Apparently, the poor lady was waiting for her turn to use a portalet when she saw someone — me — suddenly kicking the trash can, screaming like a maniac.)
So there. That’s how I sprained my ankle. Now, how do I explain all this to Lea, my therapist?
Thinking things over, I ruefully said, “Yeah, it was a Fun run.”