Happy 2016 y’all! Hope everyone had a fabulous NYE & has managed to make it this far without giving up on their resolutions just yet!
This year I decided to take on the Windy City for NYE… & the Windy City definitely won.
Wednesday night started out with dinner at Homeslice in Lincoln Park: a pitcher of 312, some bean dip, & the most wonderful bread sticks served with melted goat cheese marinara—which the waitress so unfortunately referred to as “goat sticks” multiple times. Not the best thing to say to two girls who are vegetarian, or anyone in my opinion, but I’m not sure there’s anything anyone could say that would keep me from eating there again.
Thursday morning was spent at Starbucks, consuming our daily dose of caffeine, & wandering the frigidly cold streets to do some shopping. Thursday night was spent with friends, ringing in the New Year at an overly crowded bar called Black Iron Tavern. We decided to brave the temperatures & walk the approximately 4 blocks back to a friend’s apartment instead of paying for a cab… & that’s when everything went downhill.
{*I guess I should mention the fact that I broke two bones in my foot around last Halloween. My foot had managed to find a large concrete hole while walking through a dark parking lot & it wasn’t strong enough to survive the (literal) trip. I was stubborn enough to walk on it for three days before finally breaking down & getting it looked at. I wore the hideous boot for 6 weeks, followed up with an orthopedic surgeon a few times to make sure it was healing correctly (which it was, or so I was told), & was released for good the beginning of December. I began using it more & was even back to running upwards of three miles on the treadmill daily before I left for Chicago last week.}
We had almost made it back to the apartment after leaving the bar Thursday night—I mean we were literally standing right across the street—when my foot completely gave out & I took a tumble. I tried to stand & continue walking but when I took the first step I knew instantly that it was broken in the exact same spot as it had been previously.
Well shit.
So after somehow making it across the street & back up to the apartment on my own, I began to cry hysterically. If you know me you know that I absolutely hate crying, & here I was doing it in front of 15+ strangers, mainly of the male variety. Mary, who in terms of this situation should be referred to as the most selfless, badass person/saint/nurse/friend on the face of the earth, offered to take me forced me to get it looked at immediately.
I pull myself together & we go (I hobble/limp/crawl) down to the lobby of the apartment building. We discover that the approximate cost for an Uber to the hospital (1.6 miles away) is $150(!!!) & I use nearly every inappropriate word (sorry dad) when addressing the insanely rude men assholes working the security desk about their completely unnecessary asshole-ish-ness. & that, not the actual breakage of bones in my foot as one would suspect, causes me to completely lose it. I break down & do what any other twenty-something, maybe slightly tipsy girl would do—call my dad. Nothing like waking up at 2:30 a.m. to your daughter, 7 hours away, drunkenly sobbing because she somehow managed to break her foot for the second time in the last 4 months & then pick a fight with two random guys (who were obviously not raised in the south or by anyone with any kind of manners) before going to the hospital.
We eventually make it to the Northwestern Memorial Emergency Room where we spend the next three hours trying to convince multiple hospital staff that “we really aren’t drunk” & that “I was walking completely fine & it just broke… honestly.” But in all seriousness, breaking a bone & ruining your friends NYE is the biggest buzzkill I’ve ever experienced. So one narcotic-free soft cast application—one thing I definitely don’t recommend—& a short cab ride later we arrive back to our apartment. & what better time to bake a pizza than at 6:00 a.m. after an eventful night like that?
So fast forward to the present, after my parents had to spend their Saturday traveling to retrieve my crippled self & then drive my car home because of course I broke my right foot & not my left which I use for absolutely nothing…
I. AM. MISERABLE
Apparently when you’re injured, people take that to mean they should treat you as if you’re both a prisoner in a maximum security facility & a toddler that can’t be trusted to be left alone for longer than two minutes.
My rules thus far (day 3) include:
- Not being able to drive, walk without my crutches, or wear any kind of tight-fitting pants or leggings (which is a tragedy far worse than the actual injury itself if you ask me)
- Having to crawl up the stairs & booty-scoot down them instead of attempting to crutch or hop—both of which are understandable seeing as how my lack of gracefulness got me into this predicament in the first place.
- Not being allowed to lock the door when in the bathroom & being asked if I’m O.K. every 45 seconds. It takes me at least six times that long to pee & brush my teeth so you can imagine the repetitiveness (aka annoyance) of the situation.
- Only being allowed to take baths once the splint has been removed—as if I could stand, literally, to take a shower—& then being forced to engage in conversations like this every time I stop making noise for more than 30 seconds:
Adult: “JESSICAAA?!”
Me: “Yes?!”
Adult: “……..just checking on you!!”
All I’m saying is thank goodness I can swim like a fish or I would probably be restricted to sponge baths & wet wipes.
Seeing as how I most likely have a lengthy recovery ahead of me & most definitely have a complete lack of patience, I’m sure the above list will grow so stay tuned for those updates!
Twenty-Something & Trying 