Got It?

 

 

It was a brief exchange of words.  Six to be exact.

Her two…”Got it?”

And my wordy response of four…”Yeah, I got it.”

What a scary man!

 

 

Sure, there were fewer words spoken during the Kardashian nuptial, but these six words have been bouncing around inside my empty head longer than the time between Bruce Jenner’s bad facelifts!

 

 

I was attempting to step onto a curb.

It was the shortcut to the brick sidewalk rather than using the ramp way on the other side of my car.  (I’m lazy like that!)

 

Looking like a toddler taking its tentative first steps before attempting a big climb, I must have looked apprehensive to the woman getting into her car parked next to mine.

When she asked “Got it?” several different interpretations flashed through my mind.

 

I’m sure she meant “Got it?” as in “Do you need some help?”

But you know, I have MS paranoia—so every word, phrase and glance is over-analyzed in my lesion-filled brain box!

 

Maybe she meant “Got it?” as in “You got MS?—I can tell.”  It’s a super-hero power.  Kinda like we MSers believe we have a sixth sense of who has MS by the way they walk.  I’ve done it at the mall.  You see someone walk-drag-hike the hip past and you say to yourself..”Bet she has MS.”

 

But for a fleeting moment, the male ego side of me thought she meant “Got it?” as in “You got it baby!”

Naa, a poop-cramp quickly brought me back to reality.

 

My first assumption was correct.  She was asking if I needed help over that six-inch curb.  (It seemed like two-feet, I swear!)

 

 

“Yeah, I got it,” as I wavered stepping over the curb and onto the tricky, uneven brick sidewalk that lay before me.

Content her help wasn’t needed, the lady got in her car and drove away.

 

 

I breathed a sign of relief as it always makes me feel uncomfortable when a stranger asks if I need assistance.

 

But my relief didn’t last long as a mere twenty steps later, my draggy right foot caught a Shaun White edge on a brick causing me to faceplant near the entrance.  (Bricks aren’t soft.)

 

I wanted to get up quickly so my fall would go unnoticed, but when you move slower than continental drift—it is easier said than done.

A man came out of the building.  “You need help?” he asked.

“Naa, I got it,” I responded, coming to my feet like a punch-drunk boxer in the 12th round.

 

So goes life as My Odd Sock.  That’s ok, I got it.