Our mail carrier is pretty lazy. Whenever we have a package, he doesn't ring our bell; he just leaves one of those salmon-colored "Pick up your package!" notes. I know this because I was home all day and the buzzer never buzzed, yet Adam kindly delivered one of those slips with some cards and bills. So today I borrowed Meg's boss's enormous SUV and careened throughout the Mission to make it to the post office.
Everybody likes to ask how I wound up on crutches. Everybody! I don't mind telling the story, though I feel it loses drama without the back story. So I told the postal worker the tragic tale of mashed metatarsal, and he delivered my package with a smile. It was from Scott. The only problem: I hadn't thought about how I'd transport the parcel, considering my arms were occupied with the crutches. Crap.
The man in line behind me offered to carry the box, and while I normally like to do everything myself — proving that I have not yet grown emotionally beyond nursery school — I had no choice but to accept. So Raul the Argentinian and I walked down the street, him holding our parcels and me realizing that I should really offer him a ride. So I did.
It took three days to find a parking spot, and when I did, I realized that I was back at square one, without Raul to help. But I had only two blocks to walk, and I figured a way to hold the box between my arm and the right-hand crutch. It was awkward, but if I went slowly, I could make it work. I shuffled down the street and noticed a man and his toddler coming down from one of the beautiful Victorians. He, too, offered to help. He had a very slight, definitely European accent, and when a "bahwhay" came out of his mouth, I realized that once again I'd been saved by the French. It's comforting to know that people are kind enough to help. Restores my faith in humanity and so forth.
Everybody likes to ask how I wound up on crutches. Everybody! I don't mind telling the story, though I feel it loses drama without the back story. So I told the postal worker the tragic tale of mashed metatarsal, and he delivered my package with a smile. It was from Scott. The only problem: I hadn't thought about how I'd transport the parcel, considering my arms were occupied with the crutches. Crap.
The man in line behind me offered to carry the box, and while I normally like to do everything myself — proving that I have not yet grown emotionally beyond nursery school — I had no choice but to accept. So Raul the Argentinian and I walked down the street, him holding our parcels and me realizing that I should really offer him a ride. So I did.
It took three days to find a parking spot, and when I did, I realized that I was back at square one, without Raul to help. But I had only two blocks to walk, and I figured a way to hold the box between my arm and the right-hand crutch. It was awkward, but if I went slowly, I could make it work. I shuffled down the street and noticed a man and his toddler coming down from one of the beautiful Victorians. He, too, offered to help. He had a very slight, definitely European accent, and when a "bahwhay" came out of his mouth, I realized that once again I'd been saved by the French. It's comforting to know that people are kind enough to help. Restores my faith in humanity and so forth.
Labels: i can't walk
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