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October 15, 2006
Sports Medicine
Clara Jane has a raging case of athlete's foot.
No, we haven't entered her in any toddler marathons. We haven't even made her run any 5K Fun Runs.
"We usually don't see athlete's foot in kids her age unless they're already active in sports," the nurse said when I called on Thursday to tell her that I think my child has jungle rot. Now I'm wondering, who the hell puts a two and a half year-old in organized sports? Are Clara Jane's peers tackling each other on some super-secret football field I don't know about every Saturday morning? Are their feet flaking off in little chunks?
B. and I think she probably caught her little fungus at the pool. She certainly didn't catch it from B. or me because we're decidedly unathletic. I used to be somewhat athletic, when I was a kid. I played softball for years, plus a few years of tennis, volleyball, and basketball. As for B., I think he watched a football game, once.
When I was athletic, I was always injured and I took great pride in my wounds. The first year I played catcher, when I was eight, was positively stellar with injuries. I once caught a foul pop fly under my chin. I was looking up, preparing to catch it in a more traditional manner, misjudged the distnace, and it nailed me in the neck.
I put my chin down to hold the ball in place, turned around to face the umpire, dropped the ball into my glove and said, "She's out," which came out sounding more like the woeful death cry of a sea lion, seeing as I'd taken a direct blow to my voice box. I was thrilled.
At the end of that season, at the team picnic, I took a bat in the face from a teammate. The coach forgot to bring the catcher's gear, but obviously I was a tough kid and didn't need no stinking mask. But Dee Dee Burnett had a tendancy to throw bats, and that's exactly what she did, nailing me just under my right eye. Once I recovered enough to coherantly speak, all I could say was, "Wow. I feel like one of those Chinese gongs."
Several weeks later, my older cousin was in a tizz because I was supposed to be a candlelighter in her fancy-schmancy wedding and half of my face was the most awesome shade of seafoam green, which probably would have been fine had it matched the ugly dress she made me wear.
Currently, I'm sporting an injury from the most athletic task I perform these days: I have a sleeping injury. The strenuous task of staying still and unconscious for nine hours in a row has left me lame. The right side of my neck and my right shoulder have been pushed to their breaking points from the marathon task of supporting my overweight head in one place for nine hours.
How bad is my injury? Bad enough that it prevented me from competing in my preferred sport - sleeping - last night.
I almost injured myself this morning during another one of my favorite sporting activities: running my smart mouth while watching VH1 Classic. If it's Sunday morning, chances are B.'s making breakfast, Clara Jane's cruising the counters for stray pieces of bacon, and I'm watching "The Alternative" and running my smart mouth.
Today, during "Rush" by BAD II, I made my standard joke that I always make when I see Mick Jones in anything: "Hey! I didn't know that Seinfeld rocks!" Which isn't even my own joke. I stole it from Beavis. See, it's funny because Mick Jones looks a lot like Jerry Seinfeld, only not quite as suave and debonaire. Anyway, I said, "Hey, I didn't know Seinfeld..." and that's when I snorted a Smarty down my windpipe.
This is why I'm not an athlete, People! When I sustain two injuries in the course of a weekend from the basic life-sustaining acts of sleeping and eating candy, I can't be trusted with weapons of terror such as racquets and balls.
Want some Smarties? Or some fungicide? Because we've got both, we do.
My athlete days are two decades behind me, which might explain why, when I saw the video for Morrissey's "Everyday is Like Sunday", I didn't wretch like I used to in the days when I was a jock. Maybe now I'm more like Morrissey than I was back then. Or maybe I simply couldn't wretch because of the candy lodged in my throat and the lack of oxygen reaching my brain.
Posted by Robin at October 15, 2006 11:24 AM
Comments
This is deeply ironic because I, too, suffered a sleep-related injury last night. I guess two vodka cocktails followed by 10 hours of sleep will make your left shoulder twinge relentlessly. Let that be a lesson to me. Now, where are the Smarties ...
Posted by: m at October 15, 2006 05:17 PM
*snerk* I have nothing useful to say other than this entry made me laugh. Or, I would have laughed, but I too have a sleep related injury that makes laughing twingy and no fun.
Posted by: Rachel at October 16, 2006 12:32 PM
OMG, Big Audio Dynamite. I listened to that strangely rad/bad song way too much in the early 1990s.
VH1-related injuries and fungous toddler feet -- what's this world coming to?
Posted by: michelle/weaker vessel at October 16, 2006 01:02 PM
You, see Romeo, the bottom line is, BAD II is bringing down your mojo and giving your child foot fungus. The stank on BAD is so severe that it can ATTACH ITSELF to BABY FEET. I mean they call it BAD for a reason. And not the "acronym" reason. No, my friend. Just because it is Clash-related, does not mean it is good. No no no.
Posted by: Julie at October 16, 2006 04:08 PM
I'm glad to know that there's a rash of sleep-related injuries and it's not just me.
Oh, BAD's not that bad. "The Globe" and "Rush" are fun in that silly dance music way. But for really good post-Clash projects, they don't hold a candle to Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros. Their "Cast a Long Shadow" inhabits that hallowed list of my ten favorite songs of all time.
Posted by: Robin at October 16, 2006 04:57 PM
The voice of one man is the voice of no one. Anchor.
Posted by: Anchor at October 27, 2006 09:50 AM
