Sunday, May 19, 2002

The Tale of a Leg Gone Wrong
Lately, my injured right leg has been gathering a lot of attention for itself. It's been a great conversation piece at parties, and a great way to gather unneeded, but much-welcomed sympathy.

Here's the story. I'm an avid rock climber. I try to make it to the UCLA rock climbing gym at least three times per week. Think of it like going to a bar where everybody knows your name, except that the drink of choice is water and the patrons hang on walls instead of sitting on stools. (OK, that anology is horrible, but you get the picture.)

On one particular instance, while climbing a 5.10b (ignore the numbers if you don't know what I'm talking about) I decided to slam my shin into the wall. It hurt. Bad. It swelled up to grapefruit proportions, but I thought it was nothing more than a bruise. I was wrong.

After about a week of enduring extreme pain I decided it might be a good idea to see some sort of medical practitioner. It was then that I found out it was infected. Thirty-six "horse pills" of Cephalexin later, my leg has started to return to normal.

Time to going rock climbing.