D: What did you do?
C: I twisted my ankle.
D: How? Where?
C: I fell at Jiffy Lube.
D: In the pit!?!
Sadly -- I mean, thankfully -- he didn't fall in the pit, but rather stepped into a hole that usually has an orange cone covering it. Falling in the pit would have made a much better story, though. And you better believe I would have blogged about it well before now.
Fast forward a few days, and Chip is hauling all of the Christmas loot out to our car so we can take it to Highland, and his ankle rolls on him as he's walking down our basement staircase. And now, not only is he really limping, but his foot looks bad. Like twice it's normal size with large purple bruises bad. Like he can't wear half of his shoes bad. Like make his PT sister gasp and immediately jam a bag of frozen blueberries down his sock bad. You get the picture.
Since Mr. Pharmaceutical Sales refuses to take ibuprofen, much less ice or elevate it, his ankle is still bothering him. So after realizing tonight that there were no baby wipes in Mary Clare's room, I offered to run downstairs to the basement to get a refill.
D: Here, let me go get the wipes.
C: No, no. I can do it.
D: Seriously, Chip, you have to rest your ankle.
C: Yeah, but you're pregnant. My ankle will get better, but your pregnancy will only get worse.
Here we go again.