Covid Confessions: The Injury

Cast your minds back to the long, hot summer of 2020 – August the 7th, to be exact. And you may remember that in the midst of all this mayhem, two young ladies across the pond made a big splash with a filthy little ditty about female sexuality. Indeed, the controversy it caused provided a glorious distraction from the pandemic – everyone was getting a little hot under the collar about it (for one reason or another 👀 😉). And depending on which camp you were in, this explicit ode to lady parts was either being hailed as a feminist power anthem, or the work of Satan himself.

The song, you may recall, is called WAP (and for the sake of your delicate dispositions, I will not remind you what that stands for). Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion’s divisive but undeniably catchy track both delighted (mainly younger folks) and dismayed (mainly older folks) in seemingly equal measure – obviously flying straight to the top of the charts. And within 24 hours of dropping, the raunchy, candy-coloured video had racked up a record-breaking 26 million views on YouTube, and spawned a rather vigorous TikTok dance challenge that soon went viral (thank you, Brian Esperson).

Now I’m all for free speech, but I’m also a bit of a prude. And during impassioned, cocktail-fuelled debates in the pub garden (we were still allowed out in the wild in packs of six at this point), I held my shining moral compass aloft – decrying their shocking disregard for decorum and clothing, and the questionable example they’re setting for impressionable young minds. But secretly, I also rather enjoyed the infectious bass line (it reminds me of naughty goblins tip-toeing about in search of mischief). It kind of gets in your head and hypnotises you, like a snake charmer with his magic flute. And one day, it enticed me into trying Brian’s TikTok dance challenge.

The moment of madness struck at the top of the stairs – the reason being that at this point in time (it has since been removed, lest the urge take me again), there was a mirror on the landing that would reflect my body in all its twerking glory. I heard the sneaky bass line of the goblins and before I even knew what was happening, I unleashed my inner Cardi and Megan (Cardi-gan?), flinging myself to the carpet and gyrating on all fours with gleeful abandon in the privacy of my home. And I was having a marvellous time – until a hideous crunching sensation let me know that this was probably the last TikTok challenge I’d be attempting for quite some time. My hip was stuck. Like… really stuck. And it hurt like ****.

There are certain defining moments in life when the stark reality of our slow and steady demise rears up out of nowhere like a King Cobra and bites us in the face. Like the devastating twinkle of that first grey hair. Or the ominous trickle that stops your laughter dead in its tracks as your eyes widen with terror. Well, the pitiful sight of my ridiculous reflection – stricken mid-twerk with my butt in the air, weeping hot, salty tears of self-inflicted agony and shame – confirmed that this was one of those moments.

👀 😱 ☠️ 😭

I crouched there, like a crippled frog, for several minutes. Plenty of time to contemplate the meaning of life and the error of my ways. I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, I could be stuck like this for days before anyone found me. I also knew that ‘un-sticking’ myself could be just as problematic – but there was no other way. So I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, and forced myself upright as fast as I could.

There was a dreadful wrenching sensation and another sickening sound (like someone wringing bubble wrap through a thick layer of ham?) and the pain was so excruciating I nearly passed out. I grabbed hold of the banister and gingerly dragged my sorry carcass into my bedroom, where I wondered how on earth I was going to explain myself to the ambulance crew when they arrived.

But my embarrassment was so great, I didn’t call 999. Or any of my family or friends. Nobody could ever know about what had just happened on the landing. So even though I may well have been issued a wheelchair had I made it to A&E, I knew I was just going to have to suck it up, and walk it off.

And that’s what I did – hobbling around and crying inside for months. Until one day in February, I couldn’t take it any longer and managed to get an X-ray and a cancellation slot with a physio at the GP. I was in so much discomfort, I even told him the truth about what had happened. Annoyingly, I needn’t have done – apparently, everything’s tickety-boo (clearly, whatever I’d done had either healed itself or adapted to its new position). But still I asked him a million and one questions so he would continue caressing my leg.

Well I say ‘caressing’… in actual fact, he was manipulating my hip socket like a hand crank and prodding all the painful parts until I almost cried☠️ 😭. Yet it felt so nice to be touched by someone, anyone, that for a moment there I briefly considered breaking the other hip just so I could come back for another check-up (good grief – lockdown has a lot to answer for). Either way, it’s official: no Zimmer frame required just yet. But as Shakira said, my hips don’t lie; time to leave those TikTok dances to the less pelvically challenged, methinks.

: )