Call Me Mrs. Gimp

We had quite the eventful weekend at the Heller Haus (yes, I realize it's Thursday already, but continue reading and you'll understand the delay). Last Saturday was my cousin Harry's 17th birthday. Remember Harry?

He's tough. He's cool. He's an urban cowboy. So as a small gesture for his birthday, the Man and I decided to take him to DC's Country Junction for a night of country music and line dancing. We put on our best Wranglers, Lariats, and Stetsons, piled three across into Duke, and made our way to the middle of Indiana.

We were having a blast until a girl, who was rather inexperienced in the art of line dancing, stepped on my foot, causing me to lose my balance. As I stepped backwards to regain my composure, I landed on my ankle and POP! No more line dancing for me. We drove back home, I put some ice on it, and went to bed hoping it would be fine by morning.

Wrong.

These poor boys forwent (forgo ed?) Sunday church to take little Mrs. Gimp to the ER for X-rays. Don't feel too bad for them though. As I was in the examination room, they kept themselves occupied by playing roller coaster with the hospital bed, experimenting with every single piece of medical equipment shown in the picture, and spying on the recently admitted gunshot victim. According to them, it was way more fun than church. (You're welcome.)

Luckily nothing is broken; just a severe sprain. If I could drive to the store to buy batteries for my camera, I would have more pictures of my grotesque and multi-colored foot. Alas, I am limited to stupid jerk crutches for at least a week. I'm trying to look on the bright side; at least I'm not asking my coworkers to rub butter on my foot (oh Michael Scott...).