When I was eighteen years old, I stepped out of a booth at a ‘50s diner with a sleepy foot, took two steps, crumpled to the floor, and then hid under a cart containing dozens of kids’ meal containers shaped like ‘57 Chevys.
Not my sexiest injury, but crap happens. In this case, crap kept me on crutches or in a cast from graduation to the end of my first collegiate year. My left ankle still looks and feels different from my right this minute.
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