The other day, Alden claimed to have a broken leg. She reasoned that she could not help me with any chores because she had a broken leg.
“See?” she said, “It’s totally broken.”
I argued that it didn’t look broken at all, even from the back. I told her to stop making excuses and start scrubbing the floors. Her response was not unexpected.
I insisted that her leg was not, in fact, broken. She demanded that she be taken to the hospital so that she could receive proper medical attention. “My bones need to be set!” she exclaimed. “I need this thing put in a cast, right away!” she howled.
I told her that I wasn’t going to fall for her wily tricks, and that if she thought she needed a cast so badly, she should make one herself. “Plaster is really just flour and water, after all,” I said, “there’s no need for me to pay a hefty medical bill just for that.”
“FINE,” she said, “I’ll do it my own damn self.”
Her technique wouldn’t win any awards, but she got the job done. It made cooking dinner a little harder, but she was pleased that the surgery was a success.
“I don’t want to end up with a gimpy leg, after all,” she said, “it might ruin my future career in the UFC.”
