Wednesday randomness is a regular feature.
I…was quite a rebel when I was growing up. As the oldest, I’m sure my sister will be forever grateful for my shenanigans. She got to see how our parents reacted to all the things I did and made sure to never get caught doing them.
It’s really hard to classify something as rebellious from my childhood, though. My parents raised us to make our own decisions and they supported us in whatever decisions we made. Sometimes, they’d dig us out of holes we’d dug for ourselves, but we were allowed to make our own choices. If those choices were stupid, we faced the consequences.
So, in high school and college, I made lots of choices–from majoring in music because I got a scholarship to working in a bar to make money and support my cigarettes-and-vodka habit.
Yeah. My parents never had much compassion for my hangovers. Our family lived by the motto: If you’re gonna play, ya gotta pay.
Rewind to fourth grade–the year I had ultrasound therapy on my quadriceps tendon for a partial tear. That was the beginning of the school year, and I had a long lunch every day. Just after Thanksgiving and before Christmas, I had my tonsils out–missed more school. But, I was a smart cookie so it wasn’t that big a deal. I got all my work done and I had all As. Then, a few weeks after spring break my parents took us out of school for like ten days. My teacher was pissed, but I still had all As, so she couldn’t really say much. After we got back from Disney World, Washington D.C., and New York City (we drove…I was SICK of my family), I was kneeling in the van we had as we came into town from our vacation (Don’t judge–we didn’t have to wear seatbelts in the 70s). My dad had to slam on the brakes because some asshat pulled out in front of him from the McDonalds driveway. I lurched forward and then back–jamming my big toe.
Three days later, my foot is swollen and bruised to hell and back. Mom takes me to the doctor and I get an x-ray done. Foot: broken.
MY SUMMER IS RUINED! I’d lamented to anyone who would listen. I had a cast from the knee down. It even extended beyond my toes. I had a velcro shoe to go over it. Looked stupid as fuck.
We lived in the country and by that time, I was riding my bike everywhere. The world had effectively ended because I couldn’t ride my bike. Or could I?
I tried–that old Schwinn 10-speed didn’t know what hit it. That summer, I did trail riding with that heavy-as-fuck road bike while wearing a cast. My friends laughed at me, but that plaster piece of shit wasn’t going to slow me down. I splashed through puddles getting my cast wet. Several times.
By the time I went back for a re-check, the bottom of the cast had practically disintegrated and smelled HORRIBLE, so I had to have another one put on. The doctor yelled at me and told me that it wasn’t his fault if my foot healed wrong, and that I needed to rest and keep weight off it.
To which I said (and I can *literally* remember saying this and the expression on his face), “It’s actually better for my foot if I ride my bike because otherwise I’d have to walk and that puts my entire bodyweight on my foot with every other step. Maybe we should make the bottom thicker and I’ll put a plastic bag over my foot so my cast doesn’t get wet.”
Bastard made the bottom of the cast so thick that it was wet for like a week. If you’ve never had a cast, they’re heavier until they dry out. Plaster casts were heavier than the new fiberglass ones even after drying, so that bitch was SUPER heavy. I swear, I built up the quadriceps muscles in my left leg SO much that summer! Oh, and I was good–I did curls with my cast to keep my hamstring strong, too.
My parents had warned me that they wouldn’t defend me to the doctor. They both expressed that they didn’t think it was a good idea–even after the second cast was put on and I was asking them to buy smaller trash bags for me to wrap my foot in when I went for bike rides with my friends.
Check out how rebellious everyone else was: