Of Hills and Hamstrings

We just returned from what I like to call my annual "voluncation" where I go upstate New York and get to be a stage director again for an enormous theatrical/religious undertaking called The Hill Cumorah Pageant.

I am in no shape to be climbing hills and stages.  And yet, I went.  Next year, I will be lighter.  That is my vow.  But this year, not only was I too fat for the Hill, I had also suffered a serious injury just prior to departing.

I'm calling it a sky-diving related incident.

I'll save you the awkward details of the lead-up to the incident, and simply explain that, while walking on a rain-wet surface, I slipped, and went down.  All. the. way.

Fat people should not do the splits.  I thought I was fairly limber.  I'm not that limber.

In my mind, this is what I looked like when I fell:

In reality, it probably wasn't that glamorous.  My poor son who was with me, managed to assist his fat old mother upright, up a few stairs and a couple blocks to the car, whereupon I had a good cry, then drove the 60 minutes home, groaning in pain every time I had to apply the breaks.  I thought surely this meant I wouldn't be able to go to pageant.

But, my hamstring was only severely strained.  Which heals rather quickly, even though it left a very, very ugly bruise. But, by the time my flight left for New York, I was barely limping and was beginning to do stairs.  Slowly.  I took the hills and stairs slowly all week, mincing steps like a little old lady, and avoiding the highest stages at all costs.  But I did it.

Next year, I won't be so stupid, nor fat.  I showed the picture to my boss and his response was:  "well, at least you stuck the landing."  True that.

Dottore Pants

My husband and I spent four hours at a medical clinic today.  No, it's not Valentine's Day, thanks for asking. I know that's a little romantic tradition of ours, but today was even more special.  Today we met Doctor Vasquez.  I couldn't stop staring.  When he entered the room and shook our hands, I suddenly felt a little breathless and unsure of where I was.  Doctor Vasquez looks like what you think a doctor in a telenovella or soap opera should look like; young, handsome, latin, smooth, and very well-dressed.

I kept expecting him to say:  "No, I am not a Doctor, but I play one on television."

Instead, in response to every answered question he would say: "Good.  Muy bien."  And "shit".  He said "shit" several times, which is not what I'm used to hearing from a doctor.  But he said it in such a way that it wasn't offensive in the slightest.  He said it in a way that made me want to say it too.  And giggle.

And if ever there was a man who knows how to wear pants, it is Doctor Vasquez.

In the United States, men have not yet mastered the art of pants-wearing.  They are always too long, too short, too tight or too loose.  Not so for Doctor Vasquez.  It made me think just for a moment, that maybe I was in Italy again.  Or that I wanted to be wherever he came from.

The good news is that we anticipate seeing quite a bit more of Dr. Vasquez in the next few months. I'll let you know how it goes.  Muy bien.


Next time maybe I'll tell you about Miguel, my boyfriend in the Canary Islands.