*Not really. But that headline provides a lot more drama and efficiency than Kathleen Turner got laryngitis so we decided not to see her understudy last night in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? which was supposed to be an early birthday present (April 18! Mark your calendars!) and instead we went to a fancy dinner that turned out to be pretty disappointing.
The day the boyfriend and I met, there were many, many many signs that we were Meant To Be—one of which was our mutual love of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and, quite frankly, all things Albee. So when Kathleen Turner’s acclaimed Broadway production of the show came to Chicago in the weeks before my birthday, getting tickets seemed like a slam-dunk birthday present. Except work has been so busy I have been making no weeknight plans (or even keeping the ones I tentatively make) for the last month. So I didn’t give the boyfriend the go-ahead to get the tickets until yesterday afternoon. And by the time we got to the theater to see the show last night, Kathleen was gone and we decided the hell with it and we went to a restaurant in Boystown I’d remembered being pretty good, except when we got there it smelled like mildew and the peppercorn steak (my all-time number-one better-than-kicking-Dick-Cheney-in-the-face favorite restaurant meal) I ordered was served with a plain little demi-glace instead and we got an apology for the bait-and-switch only after we brought it up, which is just bad form if you’re trying to be a fancy restaurant with cutely folded napkins.
Speaking of people who have a hard time translating the written word into reality (and stick with me here as I link these two stories with only the tiniest threads of transitional logic), I had a podiatrist appointment on Monday night (and I was actually able to get out of the office in time to keep it). After running three marathons, I’d begun to notice weird pains in the tops of my feet, and a marathon trainer had suggested I get fitted for orthotics. So I did my research and found a podiatrist who was 1) in my network, 2) near my office and 3) recommended by a runner I trust, namely my boyfriend. I had to run (HA! RUN!) through a bunch of hoops to coordinate insurance issues, but I got my appointment and I showed up at his 30 South Michigan office with plenty of time to fill out paperwork and start my appointment on time. I checked in with the doorperson, got on the elevator … and discovered that the podiatrist’s suite number didn’t exist when I got to his floor. I went back downstairs to see if he’d moved, and I discovered that instead of being at 30 South Michigan, I’d somehow entered the building labeled 80. So I trudged next door to 30 and started the going-to-the-podistrist’s-office process all over again … only to discover that his suite number didn’t exist in that building either. So I went back downstairs to see what important detail in the address I’d missed this time, and—sure enough—I was at 30 North Michigan Avenue. All of which is no I-can’t-tell-the-difference-between-peppercorn-sauce-and-demi-glace, but it is pretty immutable proof that I’ve begun the slow descent into my crazy-old-coot-who-yells-at-kids-out-the-window-in-his-pajamas dotage.
But! The podiatrist’s office was pretty interesting because I got to see my own bones! We (and by “we” I mean “the nurse”) took X-rays of my feet, and the doctor walked (HA! WALKED!) me through the X-rays in fascinating detail. It turns out I had a stress fracture in one of my feet without even knowing it (it’s all healed now, so there’s no need to send cards or flowers) and that pain in the tops of my feet has been caused by a cartilaginous (which is a fun word to say and spell) mass he kept describing as “spackle” that is preventing the bones in the tops of my inner metatarsals from squishing around each other correctly. He said some nice soft arch support would probably alleviate the pressure the spackle was causing, and he made casts of my feet that ended up looking like ballet slippers, except without the daintiness.
So in three weeks, I’ll start my marathon training in $95 shoes (paid for by me) filled with $510 orthotics (paid for by The Man since my insurance rocks and I’ve already met my deductible for the year) and maybe—just maybe—I’ll be able to cross a marathon finish line (or two!) this fall without limping like an old coot who yells at kids out the window in his pajamas.