It was 9pm when I heard a knock at my door. I was fresh from the shower and in my pjs.
It was one of my more high maintenance tenants. Since moving in she’s been very. . . let’s just say “particular” because I am trying to be nice. She likes things a certain way and while I appreciate that as I am like that too, being on the receiving end of those requests is pretty exhausting. But I’m nice to her because I am a nice person. . . and I am probably her to someone else. Just trying to even out my karma, you know?
So she’s distraught because her smoke alarm is beeping because the battery is low. She does not have a ladder or a chair that will get her up to the high ceiling where it is installed. Trying hard but failing miserably, I attempt to hide my disdain and tell her I will get a ladder and come up.
The ladder is down in the basement. She lives on the top floor. All of this requires me putting on a bra. Which, as we all know, is not my favorite thing.
I grab the ladder and a battery and make my way up the 4 flights of stairs. As I’m hoisting the ladder up the second floor landing, I accidentally dropped the battery I am holding in my left hand and it plummets down the space between the staircase. I lean over to look for it and when I step back, I miss the step with my right foot. My foot in an effort to find footing falls behind me and twists, the bottom of my foot turning inward and my ankle twisting. I try to grab onto the railing but it’s too late. I’m falling back a couple steps onto the landing, the ladder toppling down next to me.
I immediately think IT CAN’T BE BROKEN I HAVE TOO MUCH GOING ON. I had a fundraiser to run the following day and a trip back east in a week. Then I start to panic- I won’t be able to do yoga and I’m just now getting so attached to it. It’d be just like my life to fuck with my yoga mojo. I need my yoga!
I manage to pull myself up with minimal tears and realize I can gingerly put pressure on it so it’s not broken. Phew. And because I am a) crazy and b) bad ass, I grab that stupid fucking ladder and make my way up to the next floor (my floor) where I grab another battery and since I don’t have pockets and holding it before proved problematic, I stuff it into my bra cup. (What? Don’t tell me you’ve never used your bra for temporary storage. This much boob has multiple purposes.)
I make my way to the top floor, change her battery, make minimal small talk even though she’s trying to be polite and ask me about my life. I am like MY FOOT FUCKING HURTS & I AM WEARING A BRA PAST 9PM. Things aren’t peachy at the moment, Ms. P. That’s what I’ve decided to call her. P for Particular.
It’s really not the end of the world but when you’re hurting and you just want to be unwinding in your apartment and instead you’re on a ladder with a twisted ankle, you might not be in the best mood. I couldn’t fathom dragging that stupid ladder all the way back down stairs so I leaned it against the communal hallway wall and went into my apartment where I iced my foot then wrapped it in an ace bandage. Which is what I’ve been doing off and on for the past five days. The swelling has finally gone done but walking stairs are hard and my ankle cracks a lot more than usual (and it cracked a lot to begin with).
Being an apartment manager is dangerous. If you’re a klutz.