About a month or so ago, my sadistic gym teacher forced us to run relays around the block. Heroically, I was to run a full lap. As I rounded the second turn, I was in the lead, with the second girl a good distance behind. Passing the halfway mark, a terrible thing happened. My ankle colllapsed! Excruciating pain ripped through my leg as tears prickled at my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I rose to my feet, and began to take a step. But as my foot made contact with the cold cement, the rippling pain returned. Sharply inhaling, I began to limp around the corner, slowly but surely. My friend, Emma saw my struggle and stayed behind to help me to the start.
Weeks later, my ankle had not improved in the slightest. I had to wrap it for circus class, and I wasn't allowed to run or jump. Finally, my father made an appointment with my physical therapist about it. After much poking and prying and bending, she made a proclamation. "Well," she began. "You strained your *insert medical term for muscle here* and sprained your lateral *insert second medical term for muscle here*." Confused, I raised my eyebrows. "Basically, you sprained your ankle. No running in gym until it's fully healed."
It's gotten much better as of late, but on thursday, some moron walked by my desk and pushed it the wrong way. I hate that kid.
"Everything sounds better when you exaggerate."
-Emily Fishkin
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