Recently, I was in the awkward position (pun intended—you’ll get it soon) of not wanting to tell the Urgent Care doctor exactly how I injured myself. I mean, I wanted an accurate diagnosis and proper treatment, but how do you tell the doctor, “I was having wild sex with my husband when I dislocated my kneecap?”
*pauses for effect*
Should I have told him the truth? Should I have described the exact sexual position? Should I have given him all of the details? Maybe… I don’t know. But I’m much bolder in print. It’s much harder to say these things to a person’s face. So I wimped out, and I LIED.
Well, maybe I stretched the truth a bit. I told him that I was crawling around on the floor (somewhat true), cleaning up after a party (well, there was a sort of party going on), and dislocated my kneecap when I abruptly changed positions (absolutely true).
I’m not sure he bought it though. The doctor listened to my story, squinted his eyes at me, and said, “Must have been some party.”
With my head held high, I replied, “Yes. Yes, it was.”
To make matters worse, I ran into my friend’s (extremely conservative) husband on my way out of the Urgent Care Center. He spied my limp and the knee brace and asked me about my injury. I couldn’t even bring myself to continue the lie I had told the doctor so I just muttered something about falling down the stairs. Which, in all honesty, happens more often than I’d care to admit.
Then, when I got home, I had to answer to my children. Unfortunately, they weren’t satisfied with my simple explanation of falling down the stairs. They asked multiple questions. They forced me to craft a fictitious account in excruciating detail. They made me act out the whole fake accident in slow motion.
I had become a lying liar who lies—with both words and actions.
When I texted my best friend about this later, she found the whole situation absolutely hilarious. (Bitch.) And she might have made fun of me a little. (A lot.) Clearly, she had no idea what kind of pain I was in. Not to mention that I didn’t get to finish, well, you know… Dislocating your kneecap has a way of ending all fun—very suddenly.
She then sent me this little snippet from Wikipedia: “Patellar dislocations occur with significant regularity, particular[ly] with young female athletes.”
It’s possible highly probable that she was still making fun of me, but I choose to view that excerpt as a gift. She had just given me my new lie.
Should this ever happen again, I plan to look the doctor directly in the eye and say, “Oh, you know. I’m an athlete—I did this during training.” (Notice I left out the “young” part—there’s no way he would buy that one.)
But, friends, here’s the God’s honest truth: it’s all fun and games … until you dislocate your patella.
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Kathryn Leehane is a mom and a writer living in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children. Along with inhaling books, bacon and Pinot Noir, she writes the humor blog, Foxy Wine Pocket, where she shares twisted (and only sometimes exaggerated and inappropriate) stories about her life as a mother, wife, friend and wine-drinker in suburbia. She is a contributing author to several anthologies, and her essays have also been featured on BLUNTmoms, The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, and more. You can follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter.