Val Plays the Lame Blame Game

Did I ever tell you about the time I sprained my ankle square dancing? I think not.

It may come as a surprise that Val was not out on the town with Hick, nor out on the town without Hick, nor out on the town trying to meet a Hick when this injury befell her. Val does not go dancing for pleasure. Not even back in the disco days. Nope. Val goes dancing for work. Future work. To increase her chance of getting work. Not that she has to now, mind you. Val HAS a job. From which she will retire in only seven short months, in case you haven't heard.

Way back when the Earth was cooling into a new ice age, not roasting on a spit over the flames of not-heaven in the guise of global warming...Val went to college. She had to take a class in Folk and Square Dance. No. It's not true that Underwater Basket Weaving was full.

So there I was, learning various dance steps, uncomfortable as all get-out, except for the fact that almost every other student in that course felt the same way. We were thrilled when it came time to learn square dancing. At least we had an idea what was involved. For square dance, we moved out of the dance studio, where we had to face only the uncomfortable gazes of our own kind, into McDonald Arena. This was an old basketball arena, at the time being used for physical education classes, what with a brand-spanking-new venue having been build by developer John Q. Hammons.

McDonald Arena was all wood floor and flip-down wooden seats up to the roof, with a narrow path around the last row of seats used by joggers who were not afraid of heights and not subject to nosebleeds at high altitudes. The building was a convenient shortcut from one side of the campus to another. Many students whiled away their down time sitting in the chairs, watching classes or the world pass by in general. So this first day of square dancing, we had a built-in audience.

These were simpler times. Our teacher had a cart that held a phonograph and speakers, which she plugged in on one wall to play a recorded square dance. She couldn't exactly hold a microphone and call it herself, what with traveling around to correct those with two left feet.

You never knew who you might end up with as a partner in Folk and Square Dance. We made two lines, and joined up with the person across from us. When we ran out of dudes, we made a double line of gals. You might get a musclebound weightlifter with excess bulges, or a high-strung 800-meter-runner with flaring nostrils, or a dainty tennis player who made Chrissie Evert look like Quasimodo, or a field-hockey-scholarship Brawny Paper Towel girl wearing a flannel shirt.

I don't remember my partner that day. But I do remember the dude who lamed me. He was one of the small weightlifters. About my height, with medium bulges, a Village People mustache, and a lazy eye. He wasn't much of a dancer.

There I was, allemande lefting, minding my own business, when he tromped HARD upon my left ankle. Stepped right on my left ankle. It wasn't a normal, lateral ankle sprain, like along the outside edge, from rolling your foot over. Oh, no. It was a medial ankle sprain. Because that dude stepped on my lateral malleolus. That ankle bone you see on the outside edge of your ankle. Stepped square on it, pushing all that soft tissue from the inner edge of my ankle to the floor. Against its will.

Thank goodness I was also taking a class called Athletic Injuries. I knew how to cut a piece of foam into a horseshoe shape, bind it on with pre-wrap, and tape up my bad hoof to reduce swelling and increase stability. I was a bit embarrassed about telling people I injured my ankle square dancing. But I really didn't injure it at all. It was that dude. Square dancing can be hazardous to your health.

But it beats The Troika all to not-heaven!
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Let the record show that Val is NOT in the videos, but that these people could quite possibly have been in her Folk and Square Dance class way back in 19somethingorother.

Thanks to blog buddy Cranky for the inspiration. Or the flashback.