Usually when a woman in her 40s talks about a shiny new toy, it’s something along the battery-operated, vibrating, adult toy genre. In my case, it’s a knee walker. Just another thing in my collection of walking aids. Unlike the boot and crutches, I’m merely renting this new toy for a month.

I anxiously awaited for its arrival nearly all day Thursday when it finally came around 4 pm–about two hours before we were due to leave for an open mic where I wanted to take my sister to hear me read.  I grabbed the instructions as she laid out the contents of the box. All in all, it wasn’t complicated to assemble the large pieces with the hex screwdriver and proper washers and bolts that came with the kit. 

About the only thing that we needed to put it together that wasn’t included was a pair of pliers. After the 20-minute assembly, which included the seat and handlebar adjustments, I got cleaned up so we could get the restaurant early enough to eat before it was my turn to read.

After 4 or 5 featured poets, the open mic round began. During my turn, I started off making a shameless plug for The Austin Writers Roulette. I then read “Amazon Gender,” which is about the modern day heterosexual woman who lives outside societal expectations. I’d never read it at this particular venue where the pieces seem to run more along the sentimental. Yet the piece resonated with many of the older men in the audience.

The next morning, I opened the front door of my apartment and all the newfound mobility that I’d gained with the knee walker was shot to hell, discovering that the guys renovating the apartment complex had painted the railing.  I’d usually grab ahold of the railing and double up on the crutches on the left and hop down one stair at a time. Thank goodness, once again, my sister was with me.  She had to stand on a step below me so I could place and hand on her shoulder and hop down.

With that hurdle down, I drove us to the hospital for the post-op appointment.  I’d feared the worse, but when the bandages and temporary cast came off, my ankle was not bruised nor swollen.  Even the doctor was impressed at how healed it looked. For the first time since the ordeal had begun, she gave me good news: I would start physical therapy a week early if I kept up the good work.

I returned to my place, after the rain had poured on the dampened railing, propped up and iced my ankle now that all that separated it from the outside world was an ace bandage.  Not having a cast or boot on truly made my left leg feel lighter, less burdensome. What a luxury.

We got lucky with parking at the gallery opening we attended. Even the rough parking did not stop me from enjoying the latest collection. Normally, in addition to viewing the art, I would also hit the corporate-sponsored bar and catered food.

This time around, I could fix a small plate and once I finished, I got a glass of the juice that they were mixing with vodka.  I told my sister she should try the cocktail since they were usually good.

I’d originally patted myself on the back for actually having more than one event lined up a week after surgery, but the second stop on Friday did me in.  A friend had invited me to her birthday dinner party without remembering that I could not walk down the steep set of stairs where the dining area was.  When I asked the hostess if they had an elevator, she told me with all cheerfulness that I had to go around the block and go down the wheelchair ramp.

After surviving that, I made a point to wish my friend a happy birthday before cussing her out for having her birthday at a damn near wheelchair inaccessible restaurant. She apologized all over herself.  Then I realized that her mother was sitting across for her! To add insult to injury, half of the capoeiristas who came to the celebration, dutifully reported to the first table they came to without even bothering to walk their two healthy legs over to me and speak.

My sister just chalked it up to the fact that they were “young,” but I think late 20s to mid-30s is old enough to know better.

The next night, we attended a fundraiser where I’ve taken tango, Spanish, and samba lessons. We got there early enough to get a choice table to prop up my leg.

This was probably the most varied show that my sister had seen so far.  The kids were the most entertaining dancing cumbia.
And samba.

And of course tango!

And then the showstoppers: the two tango teachers.

Now for the first time since I’ve lived in Austin, I finally made it to The Pecan Festival…during the rain and with one and a half legs! The point is that I made it with my shiny new toy. And this was after treating my sister to a nearby popular brunch place. About three more weeks to go and then my shiny new toy goes back to where it lives.

The time had finally arrived to repair my fractured fibula.  I’d already become quite good at maneuvering my crutches around my apartment, up the apartment stairs and rolling around my classroom in a wheeled chair–not an actual wheelchair. I’d furiously planned and written two weeks of lesson plans for my science classes and had picked up my sister from the airport.

We had to be at the hospital around 6 am, allegedly so they could put in a pain block behind my left knee. Yet, we waited around about an hour since the front desk didn’t realize that I was getting a pain block. Nonetheless, we were on time and prepared. I even wore a dress to make getting dressed after the surgery easier.

I like the way it looks as if I’m checking into a fancy hotel, which was sort of the feeling when we were escorted to room 7.  I changed into the over washed and faded hospital gown and clashing bright yellow socks with white rubber grips on both the bottom and top of the foot.

I kept introducing my friend who came along to drive us back home as the “bone-breaker” since I’d tripped over her leg during that faithful Labor Day capoeira class. She took it all in stride–since both her ankles worked very well and she has a terrific personality.

Even though my previous surgical experience had been the removal of my wisdom teeth, I was not nervous at all as my surgical team cheerfully introduced themselves to me and made conversation, with the main topic of how I broke my ankle. As a matter of fact, one of the checklist questions was having me explain what procedure I was having done and on which body part. When the anesthesiologist found out that I was a capoeirista, he said he’d make sure that I would not experience any pain since I could beat him up.

In the operating room, before all the drugs kicked in, I talked about how I’d told my students I’d be their bionic teacher. One member of the surgical team agreed that I could use my reinforced ankle to kick their butts in shape.  I corrected him, saying that I only needed to give them my teacher look.  My surgeon seconded that by saying, “Yeah, she’s tried that on me a couple of times.”

In retrospect, I’m glad there were no hard feelings about that.  She did a beautiful job on my bionic ankle. I cannot wait to dance, play capoeira, do yoga and walk with it.

So you know you’re recently disabled when a trip to the grocery store becomes an adventurous weekend plan rather than an errand. The best thing about my condition is that I’m expected to make a near 100% recovery–after having a few metal screws surgically implanted into my fractured fibula next Friday. In the meantime, a good friend offered to help me shop for groceries, in addition to taking pictures of me cruising around on the electric shopping cart.

One of the employees saw me hobbling in on crutches and figured that I wanted an electric cart. He drove one up to me and my friend arranged my crutches in the basket.  Then I was ready to roll.  Except the cart wouldn’t move. This not being rocket science, I immediately thought he’d given me a defective one. After all, I was pushing the controls forward with my thumbs.  About a minute passed when the employee suggested that perhaps I didn’t weigh enough! As complimentary to me as that comment was, my whole shopping adventure hinged on the fact that I’d be able to cruise around.

My friend handed me the crutches so I could hobble off the cart.  The employee rolled it back where he got it from and drove up a second one. I was determined to make this one work.  I jiggled the steering mechanism and pulled up on it a bit as I worked the thumb presses.  This time, it worked.  With my crutches strategically placed, I was ready to either shop or joust. Going down one aisle, there were three people down at the far end, blocking the way.  I asked my friend which two out of the three I should take out.  She warned me that there would be none of that. Yet, when I had her to put a mop in basket, I thought jousting had become even more doable.

I managed to manuever around without hitting anyone or knocking anything down, despite my medieval ambitions.  As fun as that little jaunt was, I am happy that this Thursday I’m picking up my sister  who will do the shopping for the two weeks she’s here. I’m going to make sure that she sets me up with food before she hops back on a plane. I’m ready to kick these crutches to the curb as soon as I’m medically cleared to do so.  The boot at least allows me to walk so I can have things in my hands and push a shopping cart.

Another thing I’ve discovered is that I cannot stand being “short”. I got a pain in my neck, looking up at things. More problematic, I felt invisible in plain sight. What people noticed first were my crutches and mop coming at them as I approached. From my perspective, they responded as if inanimate objects had become bewitched and moved on their own accord. Seconds later, they’d noticed that an actual human being directed the movement.

Saturday, I slept in, as one should do on the weekend.  Then I worked on my fictional WIP, my 6th painting and got some lesson planning done for my sub who will teach my classes for the 2 weeks that I’ll be out. By the time I hopped down my apartment stairs to meet some capoeira friends at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate the impending nuptials of one of our teachers, crutches were my friends again.  They allowed my great escape from my apartment, even though I stayed out only a few hours.

One thing this injury has taught me is how to ask for help.  I’m the same woman who, when told she needed surgery to fix her ankle, asked in all seriousness, “So can I drive myself home afterwards?” When I drove into the restaurant parking lot and saw no close available parking, I made up my mind that hobbling from some far off street parking would be my exercise for the day. Then, I saw a friend walking toward the restaurant.  I called him over and asked him if he’d park my car for me.  Of course he said yes. As did the other friend who fetched my car at the end of the night.

I recently recalled a conversation between me and a male coworker/friend who was recounting all the high-maintenance women we worked with.  Toward the end of his tirade, I asked, “Where do I fit on the high-maintenance scale?” He took a deep breath and said, “Teresa, you’re at the complete opposite end. A man doesn’t know what to do for you since you do everything yourself.” If only he could see me now.

Like my father, I believe in celebrating my birthday for a week, which normally works out beautifully. Yet on Labor Day Monday, I went to a noon time capoeira class and broke my distal fibula while doing a sparring exercise. Ironically, my capoeira teacher had made me switch from the partner I’d wanted to spar with two minutes prior to this exercise, stating that I’d have a “mellow class” if I’d stick with her. Ha! Now I’m not going to have a capoeira class or tango for that matter for at least 6 weeks.

The nurse practitioner tried to convince me that I couldn’t even go to bikram yoga, but I was going to be hard-headed anyway and took my boot with me and do a modified version. I couldn’t believe that an exercise that’s known for minimizing scar tissue can worsen my condition.  Plus, I’ve seen other people with injuries train with a chair.

I’d had a chiropractic appointment prior to yoga. Once I hobbled into his treatment room, I was already late for the 5:30 yoga class.  When I informed him that he reason I was wearing a dress to make it easier to prepare for yoga class, I informed me that I would not be doing yoga or any other exercise for at least two weeks. I tucked my yoga mat under my arm like Linus with his blanket and took it back into the apartment.

Ever the one to look on the brighter side of things, after I hobbled home from my doctor’s appointments, I came home to put the final touches on my 5th painting, which has joined the gallery of other Adventures of Infinity and Negativa chapter paintings.  Not only do I see the progress that I’m making as an artist, I had a revelation with this painting, which will surely be the subject of next week’s blog.

In general, happy people make the best of what they have; so although I could dwell on the things that I cannot do for the next 6 to 8 weeks, I choose to work more on my paintings, reading for research on my book while convalescing. I’m so thankful to have a job where I have insurance and sick leave in order to take care of myself. I’m also thankful that although I’m used to exercising that I have other interesting activities to keep me interested in life. Plus, I’ve made a commitment early in this school year to arrive at school two hours prior to needing to be at school in order to keep up with my work.

On Saturday, I was determined to go out on my 43rd birthday, crutches and all.  What a terrifying, but rewarding experience to hobble down 16 stairs one stair at a time, double-crutched on the left side to support my left foot. Then onto my car to attend Brazilian night. Despite the fact that I was dressed up in capoeira performance attire, the woman at the door questioned if I was one of the performers.  Then informed me that I should have used the performers’ entrance in the back.  The younger woman at the desk just chuckled as she took in my crutches and said, “Well she’s in now.”  Then the younger woman asked for my ID.  At that point, I saw one of my tango partners, who’d arrived much earlier than I, and asked him to vouch for both my age and the fact that I’m a capoeirista. Beyond that, he was my big hero who got two chairs for both me and my fractured fibula. I even invited him to get a third chair for him to sit beside me.

About 30 minutes later, two other science teachers showed up.  These two are first year teachers and had an incredibly stressful start. I invited them to Brazilian night to dance all their stress away. I even invited them to try out a free week of capoeira, which is a wonderful long-term solution to work-related stress management.

Much later in the evening, another friend materialized and chair danced with me.  Unfortunately, she’d injured her knee while getting out of the car at some point in the night.

Although the night was filled with good music, including capoeira music where I sang and played pandeiro (tambourine) on stage, I stayed off my left foot. Crutches may be their own brand of inconvenience, but they do the trick as far as keeping weight off a fractured ankle.  I didn’t even have to take pain medication during the day since I’m using them, which is wonderful.  Nonetheless, I couldn’t sit still in my chair; so I took chair dancing to a brand new level with my boot.

Although it’s challenging to be injured, especially on one’s birthday, I was truly touched by the empathy I received from both friends and total strangers. I had about 6 people comment that they had been in the same position as I and encouraged me to keep going because the situation would be over before I knew it. One woman even told me how bad knees run in her family and that one one of her sisters had not had knee surgery.

All in all, it’s been a memorable birthday, which will hopefully pick up from here.

There are different ways to celebrate the first weekend after surviving the first week of school this Labor Day, but this has been the most fun. One of my friends got a VIP table for the David Bowie Tribute AIDS fundraiser and invited me to be a part of the group

I was especially happy when she said that dressing up was involved since Halloween is my favorite holiday. What did not cross my mind, not even once, was that I should dress up in some David Bowie-inspired costume.  I think David Bowie would have approved of my attire. Anytime a black woman is motivated to wear a long white wig has to be a great moment–along with the dramatic black and white dress that Mom gave me one Christmas, and topped off with black glittery lip gloss!

The opening band played a selection of Bowie songs that got the crowd warmed up and had me chair dancing. Although I recognized most of the songs, I had the special treat of hearing some of his songs for the first time ever. I noticed that others around me were much more hardcore Bowie friends than I and could sing along with every song.

During the break between the opening and headlining bands, one of my friends and I went to the bathroom together, which women are damn near legally and morally obliged to do, and we killed some time with bathroom poses.

After all, we were all writers and performers in addition to our day jobs. So when we get dressed up to hang out and listen to good music, posing is inevitable.

As long as I train capoeira to maintain muscle tone and yoga for flexibility, I’m gonna flaunt it.

Even so, my critical eye sees that my legs are slowly losing muscle tone! When I was in my early 30s, a woman in her mid-50s told me that once a woman reaches her 40s, no amount of exercising helps. At 42.9, I’m not ready to throw in the towel. At least I can maintain my youthful attitude–or even take up an exercise that’s supposed to be really good for leg toning, but I love to hate, RUNNING.

Just as we were about to exit the bathroom, a third woman from our table joined us, and took command of my camera for a paparazzi shot.
One good turn deserves another!

I always love it when my rebellious dreadlocks peek out from under the illusion of a long, flowing wig.  Of course, until I actually buy a wig brush, my wigs eventually lock up as well. Just proving that dreadlocks are mightier than parallel hair.

So, the headlining band took a little too long to set up and play for four creative women and three smart phones.

But who knows when a truly artistic masterpiece will emerge with all the special lighting, special effects, costuming and make up collide for an incredible image?

Finally, they hit the stage.  Even with a long blonde wig, I recognize the lead guitarist as the guy who was with the VIP table beside us. I thought it was cool that his parents, who looked in their 70s, still came out to watch their son perform.

The costuming was even more spectacular for this band than the first and they sounded fantastic. I was singing along with all the songs I knew, which for me, is a far more enjoyable experience than karaoke.

We had to go down on the floor in shifts since the other women didn’t want to take their purse.  I’m just the opposite. I don’t care if a purse takes away from my attire, I’m keeping my purse! Plus, I pack light.

Toward the end of the evening, I was persuaded to go downstairs near the stage. I discovered when I got down there that there was a $5 bet on whether I and the other woman would actually go downstairs and dance. We certainly did. After about a song and a half, my age caught up with me. I casually went into my purse and retrieved some earplugs. Ahhhhh!

At one point, I left the dance floor and waltzed straight into an empty bathroom stall. As I secured the door, my ear plugged muted hearing detected a woman saying, “We’re waiting in line!” A statement which I certainly agreed with since I was in a stall and apparently they were not. Yet, in my defense, when I walked into the bathroom, I had made a beeline into the empty stall without even registering that there was a line. I did see other women, but I could’ve sworn they were either at the sink or standing to the side looking at their phones. Now that I replay the whole scene, the women looking at their phones were probably the same ones who were waiting in line, but regardless of the technology, “you snooze, you lose,” is a timeless truism. Plus, since I didn’t have to wait in line, I returned to the dance floor while the band was just finishing  up the same song I’d been dancing to when I’d left.

Despite how good the two bands were, I must admit my disappointment in not hearing “Major Tom” and “Man Who Sold the World.” I’m wondering if bands have to pay big bucks to cover those two obvious hits. One hit that came on time was walking out of the club at the end of the night and seeing APD craziness across the street. Usually I’m ticked off when a picture comes out blurry, but in this case, I think my camera captured the moment perfectly. After listening to an evening of fun music with a mostly costumed crowd, what a completely different reality to witness. As one inebriated homeless guy pointed out to us as he swaggered by, “Looks like Christmas.” I’m glad Santa forgot about me this time.

This was the week of excitement and idealism for most of us AISD teachers.  The week we dream about what a wonderful school year it’s gonna be, set up our classroom, dust off, modify or create brand-spanking new lesson plans, pray not to have a crowded class size and run around to get everything else straight in our lives. So, on Wednesday after school when I headed to my car, plotting out all the things that I needed to purchase in order to complete setting up my room, I was not pleased to see the crack in my windshield.

Although it was interesting to see how the increasing temperature during the day had caused the crack to snake around the tempered glass, I knew that I wanted it repaired before the students returned. I cursed that this windshield situation would cost me valuable time that I didn’t want to use. Before going to bed, I decided to take my car into the dealership early Thursday morning, ride their courtesy shuttle to school and then ask a coworker to take me to the dealership once the deed was done. 

Blow number two came when the guy at the dealership told me that they didn’t replace windshields. He gave me the contact information for a company that the dealership used in such cases. Promptly after 8, I called them, seeking an appointment for Friday morning. Before I could ask about a courtesy shuttle, the guy informed me that the repair guy would come to me. When I asked for clarification, I was too excited to discover that I’d heard him correctly: the repair guy would come to my school in order to replace the windshield!

I didn’t even know such modern convenience existed. Not only that, but the repair guy came a little after 9, happily parked beside my car since he’d found it in the parking lot without my assistance. I left him with the spare key, confirmed that he had my cell number and then returned to my classroom. Despite the fact that I had to pay a pretty penny for the convenience, I still stayed on track with getting my classroom together. And the second silver lining is that my car insurance fully covers it.

Ah, if this is the start of good mojo for the new school year, I’ll definitely take it.

SUP or stand up paddle boarding is yet another non-motorized way people can enjoy spending time on Lady Bird lake. Since Austin is currently experiencing 100+ weather, I met a group of other women around 10:30 Saturday morning to SUP in relatively cool 80-degree weather.

GPS got me in the vicinity of water sports rental dock, but I asked several strangers along the way to make sure that I was on the correct path. Literally. I’d parked under an overpass and took a hiking trail to get to the dock. I had no problem picking out the woman who’d organized the excursion even with her baseball cap and big shades–she was talking like someone who’d organized an excursion. In the meantime, I was dressed like someone who’d never SUPed before: a black and fluorescent spandex top with black spandex pants. I’d planned to look sleek and stylish while flailing about.

Our fearless leader had called ahead and secured a terrific discount of $20 for the whole day. Contrast that with the strange pricing of $20/hour or $40 for the day. We all placed our few personal items into a numbered plastic container along with our pre-death certificates (I think they were actually called “waivers” or “disclaimers” or something along those lines), paid our money and then picked out our life jackets.

The most experienced in our group scoffed at the necessity of  wearing a life jacket . Two of us who’d never SUPed before diligently put on our life jackets like obedient women. Then we walked down the dock to select our paddles. Based on the one video that I’d watched about SUP, I knew that I needed to adjust my paddle handle so it was 8″ higher than me. A real useful piece of information if I had any means of measuring what 8″ looked like. Even the most experienced woman among us had just eyeballed it. There I was, of course, trying to be logical. I stretched my arm, keeping a slight bend in my elbow and then adjusted the length of my paddle.

Once we had our paddles, we walked to the dock’s edge in order to get our boards and the guy working the docks rightly guessed that some of us had never SUPed before. (Was it the fact that two of us were actually wearing our life jackets?) He gave us a brief summary of the rules and some tips, including that fact that we weren’t obligated to wear the life jacket, but had to wear the ankle leash that was attached to the board. Again, the most experienced scoffed, but complied by hooking their life jacket to the leash before fastening it to their ankles.

Another rule stated that we had to be on our knees while near the dock. The guy added with a laugh that he didn’t want any of us falling off the board and splitting our heads on the dock– a fear I hadn’t thought of until then. I eased onto my knees on a padded board. I concentrated so much on my balance that I didn’t realize that I’d grabbed the paddle incorrectly. I mean really, holding the paddle is about as difficult as putting together a two-piece jigsaw puzzle, but at least I kept my balance!

I gently started paddling away from the dock and, using the guy’s advice, I placed my paddle perpendicular to the board, did the downward dog and stood up, feet already in a wide stance and knees slightly bent. From there, my balance was just fine, but I’ll have to practice paddling on a few more excursions. The three newbies all stuck together–at times, a little too well. My paddle board smacked into others three times before we set off in the direction of the Congress St. bridge. At first, I didn’t think we were making much progress toward the bridge. One newbie kept bouncing of the other newbie’s and my board before safely removing herself from the middle.

I kept playing with how to paddle while talking with my fellow newbies who had both, at some point in their lives, lived in Libya. The closest to Libya I’d ventured was on vacation in Siwa Oasis when I taught at an American school in Alexandria, Egypt. Interesting conversation flowed beautifully down the lake between one newbie and me when I started noticing turtles whose backs were covered with vegetation. Then we were nearly stuck in vegetation ourselves. We looked around and discovered that other people in kayaks and paddle boards had avoided the middle of the lake. As the two of us guided our boards to the side of the lake, the third newbie cried out, “I’ve got an equipment malfunction!”

First thing I thought about was the infamous Super Bowl half time show where Janet Jackson experienced a wardrobe malfunction. Then I replayed her words in my head. She held her paddle completely out of the water and stated that the clip wouldn’t lock. Just as the idea crossed my mind that I’d have to paddle back over the thick foliage to help, she locked her adjustable handle in place. So much for a dramatic rescue.

Since I wasn’t wearing a watch, I made an effort to go to the bridge, turn around and hustle back to the dock, leaving my newbie companions. As relaxing as SUPing was, the whole way back, I hoped that I wasn’t wearing out my arms or lowback since I’d planned to take two tango classes later that afternoon. I did like the fact that paddling isolated core muscles, which are also important to dance tango.

As I neared the dock, I assumed the position and paddled while on my knees. All flawlessly executed. Next time I SUP, I will scoff at wearing a life jacket and ankle leash.