No class today

Last night, I found myself with a turned ankle. I'm not exactly sure how it happened: one moment I was at the top of the stairs by the door, the next I was far closer to the ground than I expected to be. (It's like discovering that you're wearing two pairs of underwear. You ask with astonishment, "Who could have done this?" but the answer is that you've done it to yourself, when you weren't looking.)

A quick roll-call of parts determined that everything seemed properly attached and contained. My ankle hurt but not enough to cancel our rendezvous with friends. (Incidentally, Sam searched out an extremely close parking spot, one of the many, subtle ways he takes care of me.) Three glasses of wine later, I felt great.

Not so much this morning. It takes about ten minutes to get from my car to my classroom, which typically seems a short distance. The stiff ankle, and the egg it had grown in the night, said no, and I called in. This interlude reveals two unhappy faults: 1) I tend to whine about physical pain, and 2) I readily to notice minor pains, which I then whine about. 

I'm also a bit of a liar. A couple of weeks ago I was moving fairly slowly one morning, and consequently, I was late to class. On my way there, I created an elaborate story to tell to my students. See, I was driving with the windows open because it's such a nice day. At a stoplight, a small bird flew into the car through one of the open windows and then tried to fly back out through the windshield. We both panicked. I swatted at the thing with a book, and it eventually figured out how to get out the car. 

The students laughed, but I don't think they bought it. But what are they going to do? Call me on it? I'm the one grading them. At least I had an entertaining excuse, if not a good one.

So what new lie can I tell them on Monday about how I turned my ankle? Perhaps it will have to do with encountering my doppelgänger. Or maybe another bird story. It could be a theme.