So I mentioned earlier that I am on my way to becoming a 31 year old divorcee.. And how weird and annoying do you think it would be on this voyage into alonedom to be on crutches? Well, my friend, I’ll tell you because it happened. About 7 months ago, I decided to get really drunk because that’s what people do after break up’s..after all? And I like to get drunk sometimes anyway for no good reason and this, conversely, was a very good reason.
We went to a local watering hole night that I never frequented much, but at that moment of drunken glory, I decided I’d become a regular because everyone seemed to be so damn supportive. They all heard my life story and I’m pretty sure many of them didn’t ask me for that much detail. Guaranteed all of the bartenders remember me and I even decided at this bar on this epic night to become a stand up comedian because some asshole that hit on me pretended he was and tried to lure me into coming to his basement to practice my sketch (found out later he lives with him Mom and is probably a serial killer…but I never went to his creepy basement because remember, I got-ta the street smarts lady). After getting a lot of my feelings off my chest to complete strangers, I felt refreshed and thought it was a great night to walk home, although I had never actually done that sober. Cabs were cheap and free flowing, but I was intoxicated and retarded. The rest is a blur.
The next day, I wake up with a massive hang over, some picture of me and scary looking guy on my phone, and a funny feeling in my ankle.
As the week goes on and I prepare for a fun filled weekend in LA for my friend’s upcoming 30th, my ankle gets progressively weirder looking and sort of painful. But I am a trooper and determined never to sweat the small stuff — so I power on. But then Friday comes and I start to panic a little. My ankle swells so I put pain patches on it that I found at the dollar store and decided not to look at it anymore. But just to be sure, I send a picture to Bridget to get her opinion of the situation. Bridget told me not to come anymore because my ankle would likely get us outted from most clubs and cool parties. Just kidding.
Mid-Day Ankle Photo Montage!
We decided I better get this checked out before my LA adventure, but the hospital is too dramatic and expensive, so I went the cheap route and stopped at a doctor on duty clinic and better assess the situation before I drive 5 hours. On my way to the emergency clinic, I stop for a spray tan in preparation for my trip. Shocking. When I’m on the doctor’s table, I nicely ask his assistant to refrain from messing up my spray tan when the doctor reckoned that they had to shoot me with a needle of steroids in my tuckus.
They diagnosed me with the gout and advised me that I needed to get off my ankle immediately and get on crutches until it healed. But all I could hear was GOUT. The fucking gout. One of my friends told me that they were fairly certain that only 60 year old sailors get the gout. Maybe when I was walking home shitfaced from the bar, I hooked up with a 60 year old sailor? That’s the only nugget of reasoning my brain could fathom. But I was also on mind altering drugs for the rest of the night and it made even less sense than it did when I woke up the next morning.
So after a night full of drug induced texting to all of my closest friends and co-workers, my ankle blew up to the size of Antartica. I didn’t go to LA, but I did lay on my couch and wonder how the fuck I was going to live my life with the gout and a divorce. Shit, had I known I had this terrible disease, I would have potentially stayed married. 2nd date question: tell me something about yourself…Um, I have gout. No, I’m not a lunch lady.
I actually found out later you cannot contract the gout from getting drunk and walking home. That’s actually really responsible. I fell in my dumb high heels (which I already knew but wanted to save that part for the suspense aspect :). I went to a real doctor and I sprained my ankle and pulled a tendon. And I also learned that 24 clinic doctors are dumbasses. They tell you anything so they can shoot you in the butt with drugs. I don’t know if that’s why, but who in the dickens wants to be working at 5:00 PM on a Friday at a sad clinic anyway? I actually had to wait awhile for the needle injection because the doc went on his lunch break. Really?
Moral to this story: Gout is NOT a drunken mistake that you can contract from a night of bad choices. And thank the heavens for that because really it’s just one less thing. But if you want constant access to needle drugs, become a 24 hour doctor at a clinic for the following Reasons:
a) it’s probably not that hard
b) you can poke yourself all day long
c) it’s lunchtime, all the time