The Wrong Side

Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. For the past week my ankle has been so sore when I get out of bed I hobble and wobble over the cold tile floor like a geriatric. Just my right ankle. I haven’t figured out the source of this pain, as it quickly dissipates. Maybe, since I’m driving a stick-shift vehicle now, the extra pedal-pushing has aggrivated something? Or maybe I sleep on it wrong? But I doubt that would occur night after night.

So I try to cheer myself up. This inevitably is done in two ways. Either I 1) put on my favorite red 4 inch pumps that are the perfect shade of red. Not the trampy-vampy-fire-engine red. But a vibrant red that someone would have painted their child’s wagon in the 50’s. A red that has just a hint of orange in it. The same red as my father’s beloved BMW motorcycle that we rode to Seattle when I was twelve.

Or option 2): I drink an entire pot of coffee in hopes that my caffeine high will have me whistling “Life is a Highway” on my way to work.

The red shoes usually work a little better than the coffee. I opted for the red shoes today, but they are faltering. My ankle hurts in them, and this persistent headache could probably use a little caffeine.

Tonight I will go to bed knowing the “wrong side of the bed” seems to be taking over the entire bed. It’s no longer an excuse. I need to find a cure that doesn’t involve red shoes.