Sunday, October 12, 2008

Of Ankles and Ankle Biters

In a moment both proud and pathetic, a week ago I arose victorious from my bed only to discover that, in fact, my ankle hurt like hell. Also, it was swollen to the size of a particularly creepy-looking cankle, cornered as well as a Winnebago, and did nothing to alleviate the rumors at work that I am the reincarnation of Francois le Clerc (can I help it if lax security in cubicles leads to plunder of staplers and post-its?).

Apparently that dream about having my foot caught in something had been based in reality, or perhaps unbeknownst even to myself I had taken up midnight jogging. In Via Spigas. (Because that's primarily what I have in my closet, aside from a large number of things I am not getting rid of because I'm Going To Lose Ten Pounds And They'll Fit Again, but that's neither here nor there at the moment.) How completely ridiculous is that? Who sprains their ankle alone in bed asleep? I'd love to claim a particularly heroic deed, something Indiana Jones-ish, or at the bare minimum that I was active, but the truth is that I was supine and am outdoing myself in levels of heretofore unsupposed klutziness. Oh well. I could be a cutter, I guess.

I have returned this evening from the seething pit of humanity known as Las Vegas. My nephew was being baptized, and I had supposed in capital letters that it was Important I Be There. His baptism itself was unbelievably sweet, as is said nephew; watching a tow-headed, blue-eyed little boy blink away tears while singing "I Am A Child Of God" is enough to make even my grinchy heart take a stab at growing at least half a size. Also, the other kid from his ward getting baptized looked like Ralphie from A Christmas Story, minus glasses and with a really stupid Spanky haircut. You can't beat that.

During the course of the visit, I got put on time out. Again. It wasn't even my sister this time; it was my sister's mother-in-law, who told all of us that we Knew Better.

Well, I do now.

Six boys and one girl under the age of 12 make for wild times, my friend. Wild times, indeed; especially when you have a sign over your head that reads "Pied Piper/Punching Bag, No Training Required". I don't know what I do, but they all want to destroy me. I walk into a room, they point, and voices scream "Get HER!" What do you do that that point? Get overrun by germbags? No, survival instinct kicks in and you Run Like Hell. Which is when I got put on time out for plunging down the stairs with the entire melee following. Adults can feel as superior as they want, but there's something about not having kids that allows you to wind them all up to high-pitched, wired like a hummingbird-on-crack vibrating hysteria, and then send them home. Parents hate it, but if it's a choice between listening to the weather and plans for house renovations or getting shot between the eyes by Wyatt Earp, I know which I'm gonna pick.

Plus, I still owe Tanner for telling the adults that "the big one" was the one who started it all. Your day will come, Tanner. Oh yes. It will come.