Adolf and Eva

I woke up this morning as normal, until my foot hit the carpet. Terrible shooting pain in my left foot, I couldn't walk. So I just hobbled and did my things, none of which I was getting right. I tried putting my cardigan on, I was putting it the wrong way right a couple of times, and all while balancing dangerously on my right foot. I couldn't drive very well but I had to, and on I hobbled to school. I'm not sure it was a good idea, because everywhere was so slippery wet, and there I went again. I actually managed to re-sprain my same foot. Oh God the pain. Thank God school houses an elevator, I wouldn't have managed. And I guess I wouldn't have managed very well if it were not for my friend Claire who at least took off me the weight of my bag. My bag weighs tonnes, I just put everything into it, probably half the house too. Then it weighs me down, and on a day like today that would not have been such a good idea. I thought the pain would subside; it didn't. So of course I had to drag myself to the doctor who didn't like the look of my foot at all. So long for all the pedicures, he said he didn't like it. But I think he was referring to the inflammation, at least I hope he was. No I'm certain he was, I have a nice doctor and he wouldn't say anything like that unless it was a medical problem. I will save you from all the boring details. It turns out I have a hairline fracture (what's my hairline got to do with it is a mystery) and it cannot be put in plaster (that's a good thing because I hate plaster). So I got off with a heavily bandaged foot and I cannot wear any of my shoes except for my Nikes and even then I have to tie the laces really loosely. I am taking pain relievers and my foot still hurts. The little man that was digging in my head not so long ago has suddenly moved to my left foot. I love men, but not these little men who are always digging. I love men again, and mostly big ones, but I do not have a problem with small men unless they are suffering from a Hitler syndrome. They are usually the short stocky men who would love to wear a bra but because they cannot get away with that, they somehow puff up their chest. They are also nearly also way too assertive, walk with a sergeant major walk, and think they rule the world. They have never come to terms with their height (or lack of it) and would probably wear heels if they could, but since they cannot, they take to walking on the balls of their feet. They look like a puffed up pheasant. Not a pretty sight. And I have to say it again, not all small men behave like this. Some small men are very sensible and sensitive. They make extremely good colleagues. I, for one, should never and am not complaining about size. These Hitler-syndromed men are probably the male equivalent of females who strut around in high heels all day long without doing anything. They have micro waists, non existent hips and are not necessarily pretty. Of course they can never show a cleavage because they don't have one, never show a shapely pair of hips or some booty because nothing's there. And yes here is comes, they act like Eva Brown. Come to think of it both the Hitler-syndromed men and the strutty women look like pheasants in a way or another. So perhaps it's all in the mind and think they're the best-looking kind of poultry around. And now I start feeling sorry for them, because perhaps it's not their fault they're so in love with themselves because they've seen their reflection in some muddy murky pond and some sort of narcisstic psychotic disorder has got hold of them. Same as Adolf and Eva. How sad.