This is the second installment in a story of shame. For part one, click here.
I met the most lovely Doctor yesterday. He was an African man, probably in his sixties. His wisdom, his warmth, his soothing voice… it made me want to talk with him forever. He looked in my eyes with deep concern when I told him that I hurt my shoulder.
“Tell me what happened,” He said with his beautiful African accent. I felt like I could tell him anything. I told him that it all began as an innocent guys night out… that my competitive nature had gotten the best of me… that things got out of control in a smash-mouth battle of Wii Table Tennis.
“Did you say Table Tennis?” The doctor asked.
“Ah! Parlez-Vous Francais?” He spoke with excitement.
“Ummm, No. Wait- not Oui. Wii.” I was confusing myself.
“I am having trouble understanding,” He looked at me with concern, “You are an athlete?”
“Umm… not exactly. Its… Nintendo…”
“Nintendo?” He looked puzzled, “The children’s game?”
“Yeah… Well no… Sort of… Wii… Oui…” I stammered like Colin Firth.
He looked at me like I told him I wet my pants in his office chair. All of the kindness and concern was gone. “Let me get my associate.” He said.
I was passed off to a registered massage therapist who slowly wrestled my shoulder into submission for 30 minutes. Then I paid my bill and left.
Am I the only person out there who has sustained an injury this embarrassing?