injury bobby orr

Injury Time-Out

When you’re injured, sometimes it feels like you’re stuck in the corner while everyone else is having all the fun.


It’s because they are.


32 days have passed since I injured (well, let’s be honest “re-injured”) my back and Bob and I were forced to take a break from the OC2 fitness challenge. It’s been a bit of a bummer.


Like two nights ago when I ripped a hole in the crotch of my “stretchy” jeans while out to dinner with my husband, sister and brother-in-law. I think it was the spirit of Christmas that made it happen. That is, the spirit of Christmas Abbott, the coach of my online fitness challenge. I never managed to get around to explaining the nutrition program she set up, but let’s just say I’ve been interpreting it VERY liberally.


And I’m pretty sure Christmas wasn’t happy about it.


For starters, alcohol isn’t advised in Christmas’s nutrition program. But the restaurant had Christmas drink specials. Wouldn’t my fitness coach want me to enjoy beverages made in her honor? I figured yes. So, I had two of them. And they were delightful, and deceptively strong.


Which led to my dinner order.


Brisket bratwurst and Parmesan tater tots. Sounds macro-nutrient balanced, right? Even if it wasn’t, how can a person NOT WANT TO TRY A BRISKET BRATWURST? After all, I was wearing my stretchy jeans, I was celebrating a holiday with family, and the waiter was wearing a Christmas light necklace with a blinking pattern that was obviously Morse code for “order the brisket bratwurst” followed by “order a third drink.”


So I did.


And I was feeling a little bit guilty about it all, until the brisket bratwurst showed up. It was everything I’d hoped and dreamed about. It was like, well, it was like it was looking at me. Looking right into my very soul and saying, “Olivia, I am going to change your life.”


brisket bratwurst

Now, Christmas. Before you get all concerned and be like, “girl, YOU GOT FRIES, TOO?!!!” just relax. Those were for the table. FOR THE TABLE, Christmas. I only had a few. Like 50. But they’re small and thin. We’re not talking steak fries here. Just 50 of the small ones. So NBD.


And the brisket bratwurst really did change my life. Because before I had brisket bratwurst, if you told me it was possible to split the crotch out of a pair of jeans made with spandex, I would have told you that’s crazy. As crazy as Snoop Dog narrating a nature video.


But it’s not crazy. And it can happen out in public, like at a busy, popular restaurant in your hometown where the bathroom is in the back and your table is all the way at the front.


The good news is that the crotch splitting was a slow, gradual thing, rather than all at once. So I think I made it to the back of the restaurant without putting on a serious show. It was probably more like an opening act. And not a very good one either, more like the kind where people go to the bar to wait things out until the feature artist comes on stage. You barely notice them.


Anyway, I made it to the bathroom. And the good news is that it’s a trendy restaurant, so they just have the one room / one toilet set-up with the fake plants and the nice lotions and the fancy hospitality baskets, so I figure I can search around in privacy for maybe a travel sewing kit or maybe some fabric tape. Because in my three-drink state, that sounds like a good idea. Like trying to patch a dam with a bed sheet.


Thankfully, I don’t find any fabric tape to try that brilliant idea. But I wasn’t giving up easily. I think, “there just might be a sewing kit hidden… on… that… lower… shelf.”


But as I crouch down I feel things get breezier. A LOT breezier. And at this point, it’s obvious that there is no hospitality basket solution that can fix this spandex-cotton-blend integrity failure. It’s time for Plan B, which is just to put my knee-length winter coat on and zip it up for the remainder of dinner. It’s Minnesota, and we’re seated near a window, so I can sort of pass this move off as being cold.


I open the door, relieved, but only for about a second. Because it didn’t occur to me that while I was searching around the bathroom for 10 minutes, there might have been other people who wanted to use it. I see some disgruntled faces. I think, maybe an explanation would help.


“Uhm, sorry. Wardrobe malfunction.”


Except… it came out “wardroople malfunction.”


At that point, it seemed like a good time to get the rest of my brisket bratwurst to go, along with the lone remaining Parmesan tater-tot, and the spicy kimchee (because I figure it makes the keeping of the one tater-tot a little less pathetic if I also insist on taking the small amount of remaining vegetables), and the whole party heads back to my sister’s house.


She lends me a pair of sweatpants, which is pretty great because I’m feeling good about my chances of avoiding any further “wardroople malfunctions,” for the remainder of the evening, and maybe finishing the brisket bratwurst and Parmesan tater tot.


With great joy, I head back to the landing to retrieve my to-go box, which I dropped in my haste to change my pants. There, I find my sister’s dog, sitting next to the open container, with only a little dollop of mustard left in the corner. He didn’t even leave me the kimchee, which I wasn’t planning to eat anyway, but I know is going to be unpleasant when it comes out his other end. And we’re dog sitting the next day.


Moral of the story…


Either stay on your nutrition plan at all times, or just wear sweatpants everywhere.



Out of the playoffs











Merry Christmas.

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