I have a broken foot


I broke my foot at the end of July.  Liz has seen me on crutches, in a walking cast, and now, in a horrendously ugly orthopedic support sandal that is to be worn with a sock.  Of course she has something to say about this.

I’m using the car that used to belong to my mom.  It still has her handicapped plates. Liz is baffled as to why I don’t park in the handicapped spaces at the store. (because I’m not handicapped, of course) The other day, this happened…
Liz: Mom. What number of handicapped are you?
Me: What do you mean? A percentage? A one to ten scale?
Liz: I. Mean. What. Number.
Me: I don’t know…what number means all the way handicapped?
Liz: 52. But you can’t use that one, because you’re not all the way handicapped.
Me: Ok. Let’s see here…I’m ambulatory, I’m fit, I’m healthy, but I have a broken foot. I’d give myself a three right now.
Liz: Then you have to get new license plates that have a handicapped and a three, to show that you’re only three handicapped.

I came home today without the cast , but with an orthopedic support sandal that is hideously ugly. Bonus: I have to wear a sock with it. I showed it to Liz, and she said, “MOM. That is not fashion. You can’t wear socks with your sandals because that’s not how you do it.” She decided that it would be okay to wear socks with sandals if they were silly socks, though.

She also likes to give me very stern warnings about high heels and platforms. She’ll see a pair of heels (like the ones I broke my toe wearing a few months ago!), or one of the walking clogs that I fell off of most recently, and she’ll say, “If you ever want to wear shoes like this again, you have to be super careful. You have to look down and pay attention or else you’ll get hurt again.” Either that, or she’ll see a picture of high heels, and then cover them up and say, “Mom, there’s some shoes you can’t wear. They’re too dangerous for you.”


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