Last Friday, though, my left foot started to hurt. Really, seriously hurt. By the time I went to lunch with some coworkers I was limping a bit, and by the time we got back to work I was limping a lot. It was a big, drunken-peg-legged sailor limp, too. I could walk on my heel, but if I tried to walk normally it hurt like hell.

You ever tried to see a doctor in New Orleans on a Friday afternoon? It's not gonna happen. They're all playing golf or screaming drunk at Galatoire's. I called Sonya and had her ask one of the real, live doctors she works with.

Put some ice on it, I was it advised. If it still hurts in an hour go to the emergency room.

So I propped my foot up on my desk with a big plastic grocery bag resting over my pants leg. An hour later it still hurt so I left early.

It was a long fucking walk from the garage to the emergency room at Oschner, I tell you what. I had to stop and rest a couple of times.

They have this thing called Fast Track, which is like a minor medical thing except they charge regular emergency room prices. I didn't care. My fucking foot was aching and I wanted drugs, and possibly a cast.

The doctor was surprisingly happy, considering he was working on a Friday afternoon.

"Did you do a lot of walking and standing this past weekend?" he asked.

"Yup."

"We're you wearing those shoes?" he cast a suspicious eye at my new All Stars.

"Not that particular pair, but that kind of shoe, yeah."

"You can't do that! You're what? Thirty?"

I nodded.

"You're a grown man! You're not a kid anymore! If you're gonna abuse your body all day the very least you can do is wear comfortable, sensible shoes!"

I had a pulled muscle in my foot, and my support-less shoes had made it worse and worse. He fussed at me a bit more, then gave me a prescription for some anti-inflammatories. No painkillers, dammit.

I went home and put my foot up.