life is like a broken ankle.

We leave the late-night showing of, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, giggling like teenage girls over the hotness of John Corbet.

I know. Wipe that look off your face.

Anyway, we leave the theatre well after midnight. I saunter behind Cal and Sid, coveting over a vintage skirt glaring out at me from a store window. Such is my coveting, I don't pay attention to the sidewalk - - like, you know, the fact that it comes to a very abrupt end. Suddenly, my left ankle impersonates Rice Crispies: snap, crackle, and pop!

“GAAAH! HOLY SHIII - - IP WRECK!” I shout, hopping like a mad woman to the nearest bench.

Cal and Sid quickly come to my aid. “Ew. Gross. It looks like you just stuffed a bunch of marshmallows in your ankle!”

I glare.

“Maybe we should get you to the car,” suggests Cal, who graciously - - being the perpetual wonder woman she is - - totes me the five minute walk to the parking garage on her back.

Being not-so-brilliant, we decide to have me sit up front, and place my ankle on the dashboard. This would help with the swelling. Never mind the safety level, or how uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry. We’ll hurry home,” Sid says, but Cal hesitates to pull out of the garage.

“What?” Sid asks.

“Err. I’m not sure where we are.”

“What? How do you not know where we are? Turn left.”

“Huh? No, it’s right.”

“No. Left.”

“Right?”

“Maybe straight?”

I don’t remember what the decision is: right, left, straight. I just remember it's a wrong decision. We end up on a road with a gazillion potholes. Not just any potholes, either. These potholes are designed by nuclear physicists. Every time we hit one, my foot bounces up and smacks the window.

“I’m sorry!” Cal cries. “Maybe I should turn around?”

“Maybe you should,” I suggest, biting my tongue as we hit another pothole.

“Probably not,” Sid leans over the seats, pointing over Cal’s steering wheel, “You’re outta gas.”

So, to the nearest gas station we go. It just so happens to be in a really foreboding sort of neighborhood. The kind where it can’t hurt to compliment a guy on his spray-painting skills, or ask the lady under the streetlamp where'd she get those hot stilettos, ‘cause you totally need a pair, and - -oh, Mr. Store-Cleark-Man - - is that, um, a shotgun behind the counter? Yeah. That kind of neighborhood.

“Listen,” Callie says, after filling up the tank, “I will run inside and get some ice for your foot.”

“I’m coming, too!” Sid declares, already jumping out of the car.

“What? Wait! You guys can’t leave me alone out here!” I whine, being (at the time) a completely naïve girl.

“We’ll lock the doors!”

“YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME OUT HERE!”

“Seriously, you’ll be fine!” Callie reassures me, and throws something on my lap, adding, “But there’s that, just in case.”

I lift the small tube from my lap. “Callie. This. Is. Chapstick.”

“Well, they wouldn’t know that! You can say that it’s maize.”

So, here I am, left alone in the car: an invalid with Cherry-flavored Chapstick as her one line of defense.

Of course, everything works out. I get ice for my foot, and an hour later, I even make it back home! The reason I tell this silly story is to point out this: life can be a lot like a broken ankle. One moment you’re walking and skipping along, and the next moment you’re not.

Sometimes you have people to help you out of the rut, and sometimes you are left with only a tube of Cherry-flavored Chapstick, and sometimes you don’t even have that.

But sooner or later - - after all the directionless moments, the potholes, and the unexpected stops - - you make your destination, and after a while, the ankle heals.