My boot is an instant conversation opener. Always. Wherever I go.
I don’t go very many places, or very often, but responding to strangers has become very, very tiresome.
To break the monotony and repetition of how a freak misstep into a hole in the ground ruined my life as I knew it, I began to make up fantastic quick explanations about “what happened.” Sky diving, Space Mountain, tree climbing in the Serengeti, etc.
Sometimes, I don’t stop to clarify. I just keep on my wobbling way, leaving my interrogators to scratch their heads, trying to make heads or tails of what I said. Four or five wobbles away, I usually hear chuckles and I smile.
My responses are helped along by the medication, which has destroyed my internal filter. I don’t always know what I am thinking until I say it.
For example, a woman recently held a door for me. “Broken?” she asked.
Without hesitation, I responded, “Leg, no. Spirit, yes.”
I wobbled on, not stopping for further conversation. I didn’t hear a chuckle. I didn’t smile.