chivalry is dead

Dear Man on The L,

This weekend I suffered the first known injury of my engagement.

Picture a beautiful day... high 70s, sunny... Imagine You live a mere 1.3 miles from beautiful Lake Michigan. Then insert The Fiancé, eager to join You on a nice little run to the lake and back. Off You go, high on adreline because You are IN SHAPE, You are RUNNING ON A SATURDAY, You look good in those Nike shorts! You are having WITTY CONVERSATION without being out of breath. This is the life!!! That is, at least, until 10 minutes later and two blocks from Your home, when You suffer an unfortunate incident with a curb and the displacement of Your foot off said curb. Result: a lovely little twisted ankle (picture: puffy and purple and not at all bride-like), and a Saturday afternoon shot to hell. Adrenaline is replaced with depression: how will You ever become Buff Bride when the heavens are aligned against You like this?!

Thankfully after two days of RICE (rest, ice, compression and elevation, per Dr. Fiancé), I feel much better. That is, I did feel much better, until I embarked on the bane of my existence in order to return to work: The L.

One would think when You're a healthy 25 year old male with a seat on the L and You see an old hag (a/k/a Your's truly) with an ACE bandage on her ankle, You'd give up your seat before she falls on her arse, but nooooo..... Let her wobble around in uncertain safety for 25 bloody minutes. Right in front of You.

Anyway, I really hope You (read: Mr.-won't-give-up-seat-to-the-handicapped) have a great day.

xoxo,
Gimpy