So I have gone from the point of ice-packing and medicating my demolished leg

The murder weapons.

to a new stage involving compression bandages, something I would have thought of days ago if it had been anyone’s leg but mine.

A veteran of numerous twisted ankles (my lawn is full of gopher and rabbit holes), I have a whole library of these Ace bandage things available for changing and laundering. After five initial days of “just shoot me” pain and another week of random spasms and ignominious hobbling, to say nothing of being unable to find a sleeping position that didn’t stress one of the various muscles involved, I realized that what I craved was reinforcement. I broke out a roll and mummy-wrapped the offending thigh, and after an initial quarter-hour of grief, I had my leg back. Back. A little bitching on the warmup bike and calisthenic foreplay, but the hack sled came up goddammit without that “gee it might break” moment of wretchedness in the middle of the rep, and oh jaysis, I could walk. Walk without lurching and causing people to say “You’re limping!”  (Really? How about that! I hadn’t noticed! Thanks for telling me!)

Best guess, the fascial inflammation is resolving but taking its own damn sweet time, as white tissue will, and the compression both supports the muscles and keeps the swelling flushed out of the space between muscular compartments. Instead of hitching and squealing (figuratively) when I shift my weight onto my left leg, the adductors just do their fucking job. I can walk down stairs. Or up stairs.

A damn good thing because, as it happens, the Engineer and I had tickets to a performance of the Rocky Horror show, of all things, performed by the Gilbert and Sullivan company to which my late and ex husband once belonged. The Washington Gay Men’s Chorus once did Pirates of Penzance  in full blue drag, so turnabout is fair play.

I had never been to a Rocky Horror performance before. They call anyone who is seeing the show for the first time down to the stage, inscribe a V for Virgin on your forehead with lipstick, and require you to fake an orgasm then and there in front of the house. Most of the dozen or so folk in line with me managed to squeak out a bashful “oh my god” or “oh baby.”

I was so excited at stumbling only once on the way down to the stage that, bandages and all, I gave it my best.

I must have aced it. The cast sent me back up to the mezzanine and made the rest of the patzers do something rude with Twinkies.

It was a great show.


18 thoughts on “Ace

  1. Yay! I adore Rocky. They knew not to pick on you, eh? It’s more fun to mess with the shy ones.

    I think men look pretty damn good in fishnets…maybe it’s because I lost my ‘virginity’ in the mid-80’s. it was to the movie, but they always had live actors and threw toast, etc. I revisited the theatre every weekend in the late 90’s as well – they served BEER. It burned down after a hurricane in the 2000’s I believe. Shame.

    • They let us take our beer into the show, too. Local IPA from down state.

      I seem to gravitate towards the men who are least plausible for fishnets — but then the one beau I had who turned out to be actually transgendered was president of the Young Americans for Freedom (the Barry Goldwater group), a National Review reader, and initially interesting because the whole “pervert to convert” concept was so intriguing. Little did I know: forty years later, he’d still look damn fine in fishnets, but he’s still an asshole who thinks Rush Limbaugh is alternative journalism, and still hasn’t had the balls to transition. If that’s the way to phrase it. (The best I’ve known him to do is wear Daisy Dukes in his own living room, and if you have the balls to do that… you better not do it.)

      • Coming back late, I know. I save things for later never imagining just how late that might be. Loads get deleted instead… But I have a gra (Irish word, no idea how to spell it but that’s how you say it, means love, affection, deep respect – much more than the English ‘love’) for men who dress like women. I have a friend my age, and he is the most manly-man imaginable in physical body, career, hobbies – except for his alternate persona that he shared with us one night in our home. I felt honoured he trusted us with ‘her.’ And now I like him a hell of a lot more.

        • I dig that. Butch as I am, I almost feel like a transvestite myself sometimes, and so guys who dress in women’s clothes delight me. Half of me can’t understand why a guy would *want* to be female in any way, the other half is pleased to meet them in the middle ground.

          • Most of me cannot understand why shaving legs, pits, futzing around with hair, and putting on makeup makes someone a woman. Oh, and the stupid, stupid shoes. But the sheer balls (pun intended) of someone who does that on purpose impresses me. I guess it’s a bit unfair – I don’t HAVE to do these things and I’m still female. But a man who wants to, and is straight – well.

          • Yes. Given the arbitrariness of the gender signifiers (oh god, I’m starting to sound like the academic I decided not to be), I sometimes wonder exactly what’s being expressed, but there’s something primordial about it. Back in my German chorus days, the Bavarian ex-pats were especially fans of a New Year’s Eve ritual of cross-dressing comedy. It felt colossally right, older than the social order. I think of Tiresias.

            On the other hand… some day I will indite a vastly politically incorrect post about transgender people. No, I don’t have a problem with men transitioning utterly and living as women if they feel called to do so (and clearly some people born in male bodies are desperate to do so). But… well, if you have lived out your life free of the grief of having menstrual periods and the attendant cramps and bloody mortifications; if you’ve never had to fear that sex would put an alien into your body to deform and destroy you; if you haven’t had to contend with fibroid tumors, endometriosis, ovarian cysts, and every brand of twat rot; if you’ve made it to adulthood without hearing catcalls, tolerating condescension and discrimination, being sidelined in athletics or career tracks.. can you really call yourself a woman? Can you waltz in at the end of the third act and say “Oh, the surgeon fixed the mistake and hello, I’M A WOMAN”??? I *do* have a problem with that.

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