#prodesigned pads

"Motherfucking cocksucker motherfucking shit fucker what am I doing? What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m doing the best that I can. I know that’s all I can ask of myself. Is that good enough? Is my work doing any good? Is anybody paying attention? Is it hopeless to try and change things? The African guy is a sign, right? Because if he isn’t, than nothing in this world makes any sense to me. I’m fucked! Maybe I should quit. Don’t quit! Maybe I should just fucking quit. Don’t fucking quit! I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to fucking do anymore! Fucker! Fuck shit!" - Jason Schwartzman as Albert Markovski, I Heart Huckabees

My monologue while I waited for my doctor to call back and confirm the course of action for the hairline fracture in my ulna was very similar, only it went:

I haven’t missed a fucking practice in almost two months! I’m trying as hard as I can! What am I doing throwing my hand out behind me to catch myself mid-fall? I knew better. Of course I fucking knew better! I hung around in the new girls group doing falls longer than anybody. Maybe this isn’t for me. What if I need surgery? Oh god I don’t want to sit on the fucking bleachers and watch practice. Please god I will do anything to not sit on the fucking bleachers. The beginners bout I signed up for is 3 1/2 weeks away. I need this injury right now like I need a fucking hole in the head.There’ll be other bouts. But I really wanted to play this one. I’ve worked out, I’ve read rules, I’ve gone to every additional derby clinic and watched every video on youtube- Fuck! Fuckin’ fuck!

I threw my little tantrum in the quiet space of my filthy mouthed subconscious ticking off the hours and willing my phone to buzz with good news. I loathed myself for being so myopic about this one setback that it could send me into a complete existential tailspin and question my place in the derbyverse.

My doctor didn’t call back until after three. There was a reason I had been able to complete the offskates workout post-injury down to the push ups and burpees, my wrist is barely broken. “Cracked” is a more appropriate word. Cracked is a word I can deal with. A small, hairline crack in a useless part of my wrist which can be easily braced and healed with minimal intervention. Most of the discomfort and “gravelly” sensations limiting my range of motion are due to strained ligaments trying to find their way back into place.

I can skate as long as I promise to wear tape and wristguards and “Not go after it like you’re trying to kill snakes” (has anyone in the history of the english language ever used this colloquialism?) The healing process will be reassessed in a couple of weeks and if all goes according to plan- I should be cleared for contact.

The good news didn’t hit me the way it should have due to my self-imposed swamp of sadness I was neck deep in.

ARTEX! Stupid horse! You’re sinking! You have to move or you’ll die! You have to care…for me.

With that I made myself take an NSAID and go run a mile around my neighborhood’s walking track trying to simultaneously banish the negative thoughts and punish myself for being such a baby.