Never having been too Zoolights before, I was delighted by how lovely the zoo looks illuminated for the holidays. There were (of course) light up animals and even scenes from The Wizard of Oz, complete with tornado, witch and flying monkeys. I didn't even mind that all the walking made my still weak foot hurt a bit. What I did mind was when a strange boy, who had apparently forgotten to take his Ritalin, ended some scuffling and general rough housing by falling on my foot and bending it in an unnatural direction that made me cry. Actually, I didn't even mind that as much as the fact that the whole incident didn't really seem to phase his parents much at all.
I am a grown woman. Except for weddings, funerals, sad movies, semi-sad movies, commencement ceremonies, and national anthems (any - it doesn't have to be mine, I am equal opportunity) I don't often cry in public. I probably would not have even cried then, had my foot not already been sore and weak from a ligament injury sustained a month or so before. Maybe it's just me, but if your kid injures an adult to the point where she cries, maybe more than a cursory "oops, sorry" followed by allowing the boy to continue tearing about the area as though nothing had happened is in order. Sometimes you really have to wonder what is wrong with people.
It also pretty much darkened the rest of my night, even though I tried not to show it. I had had plans to go to my friend Jeff's book signing. It was pretty clear after the incident I would not be able to go, which depressed me. Antonio, however, noticed I was down and took my hand as I was grimacing and limping my way toward the stairs that lead to the neverending inclining path toward the zoo store and exit to sweet freedom and informed that I should just "be patient", because that when a tiger bites me, I will need to be even more patient. It is sound advice, I suppose.
P.s. After a night of dull, throbbing foot ache my mom pressured me into going to urgent care today by offering to buy me lunch if I went. As a result, I have a belly full of Captain Neon Boca Burger and, despite feeling like an old, lumbering, lame frankenstein, know that I have no broken bones. I have also been given official license to lounge about on the couch with my foot elevated and am the proud wearer of an air cast, which if you ask me, sounds like an imaginary device given to hypochondriacs. "No, really, it's an air cast. Don't you remember when we mimed putting it on you? You can't see it, but it will totally keep you from putting too much weight on your "injured" foot!