Mean Gene

You Gotta Laugh, 'Cause It Hurts Too Much to Cry

I have a problem with my foot. Plantar fascitis, or something like that. I don't know and I don't care to learn how to spell it. I dinged my Achilles a few weeks ago, tweaked it again, and then one day at work it really started to hurt. Got worse, got worse, until Saturday I couldn't walk on it. My doctor friend advised me to get some arch supports, as my own arches are "awful-looking". Great.

So I've been wearing my running shoes everywhere, hobbling as best I can, and today I could actually WALK instead of lurching. I couldn't walk fast, I couldn't walk far, and God knows I couldn't walk up and down stairs without grabbing onto something and easing my way down. Especially down. Christ that hurts.

So after my Gunners went down I took a peek outside, saw the sun, and decided this might be my best, last chance to mow my lawn before I get triple-canopy foliage in the backyard. And then my phone rings. I'd wager that Al has made Dial-A-Shots that found the recipient in the middle of recreational drug use, in the middle of committing a felony, in the middle of coitus. This may have been the first time he called and the dork on the other line was about to commence yardwork. I utterly suck.

So I mow. Things are going well. Everything was hunky-dory until I stepped into the chuck-hole in my front yard. Now, be fair, this is just a plain 'ol hole. We do have a woodchuck living up on our hill, and the first chance I get I'm emptying a clip as his flat-tailed ass. Because I stepped in this hole with my bad foot and I certainly can't blame myself for it. The pain was way, way up there, but fortunately the mower drowned out my squeals.

I hurt, but I'm still able to walk. I mow the front, I mow the back. I almost mow the back. Because, yes, I crank my foot again. I wouldn't say this time that I stepped in a hole, exactly. More a shallow depression. The pain was the same. Now, you step in a hole one time, you get pissed. You yell and scream and thunder at the uncaring gods above. You do it a second time...I just squeezed my eyes shut and laughed. Even with two good feet I can't walk, so what's really the big deal if one is messed up? It'll cut my tripping and stumbling in half.

For dinner I went Mediterranean. A salad, with grilled chicken, olives, feta, chick peas. Actually, that's more Adriatic. Anyway, I played a SNG that took forever and a day. We lost 2 players in 5 hands and the rest of us stuck around for an hour. The play was fairly tight and no one could go bust.

I tried, though. With the action folded around I raised with A-6 in the small blind. The big blind re-raised and with the blinds big I figured now was the time to take a stand. He turns over QJ. "No jack no queen..." I say...I really gotta stop doing that. A queen on the flop and boy does my foot hurt. The six on the turn mocks me with it's promise of hope...and then another six pops up on the river.

Unreal. The power of the re-suck. I play magnificently from there, get heads up, get about a 3-1 chip lead. He limps, I raise with K-9, he goes all-in, I call. He has 9-6. Aha, domination! "No six, no six..." I chant, and just as I realize I'm jinxing myself a six is turned. My foe types "gg" and I have to tell him the pot is his. A few hands later I have KQ, he has AJ. I flop a queen. The turn is a king. "Aw, come on..." I moan, and, yes, as if in answer to my prayers a ten hits on the river. So very, very sick.

So I'm jinxed. I must be. And the very next hand I push with K-3, he calls with K-4. And I flop a three. I'm chosen. Some shortstack mastery later I retake the chip lead. I don't waste second chances. Well, third chances. Be fair, it's probably closer to fourth.

And then came the hand that still has me a bit dazed. I have J-9 and my raise is called. The flop comes Q-J-9, with two clubs. He bets out, I raise, he pushes, I call. He turns over Q-10. OK, he's got oodles of outs. Forgetting how many times I've jinxed myself already I murmer, "Keep 'em small, keep 'em small..." The turn is the deuce of clubs. "Very nice," I whisper. And the river is the three of clubs, and I sit back in my chair and raise my arms in triumph. I type, "gg".

And I see the chips pushed his way. Because I was so a-fearing his straight draw that I didn't see that the queen in his hand was that of clubs. And he runner-runnered a flush. Now, it wasn't the fact that he hit runner-runner to beat me that staggered me. It's that I thought I'd won. I thought it was over. I relaxed. And then instead I found out I was crippled.

Almost literally. Because when I slid my chair back under my table I stopped my momentum with my foot. My bad foot. And, my stars, did it hurt. I could practically hear my foot department shouting, "HEY JACKASS, YOU WANNA GIVE IT A REST?". I busted out the next hand.

Sigh. My foot doesn't hurt too bad right now. Of course, I haven't tried walking on it yet. Sigh. Gotta start watching where I'm going. Gotta start watching the cards a little more closely. Or pick one or the other and focus my attention on that aspect of my life.

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