This is getting old

I’ve been hobbling around with a broken right ankle for more than a month now. I’ve got another three weeks to go before I can even think about a walking cast. My left leg has lost its flab. My right leg is melting away. If you’ve ever broken a limb and had to have a cast for any length of time, you know that it takes forever afterwards to get back that bulk and muscle.

I’ve been feeling sorry for my right leg. It was only this morning that I realized how wretchedly resentful my left leg has become.

I can’t tell whether it has been listening to too many rage-filled talk show hosts or what. The damn limb has no sense of noblesse oblige, that’s for sure. The complaining has been nonstop about how it has to do all the work, while the broken leg does nothing.

“Aren’t you glad you can work?” I ask.

“Not all the work,” it replies churlishly, resonating from my hip, I think.

“Look, this is ridiculous,” I say. “Work is good for you. You’re stronger than you’ve been in years. It’s the broken leg that fading to nothing — because it can’t do any work. You think it’s happy just dragging around?”

“But I’m supposed to be happy, doing all the work?”

“Look, we’re in this together,” I say. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. Right now, rightie needs you to do all the work.”

At this point, my right leg accuses me of being a communist, claiming that was some kind of Leninist motto. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s on her own. I got to where I am through hard work, she can do the same.”

“Gimme a break,” I say.

“Very funny,” says leftie.