I'm Not Old!

My friend Cherelyn can't stand it when people call her "old". She's pushing 60. On the cusp actually, and soon headed right into a new decade of life. But that has never slowed her down before, and she'll be darned if it's going to slow her down now. ("That's right!" I can hear her saying). So it's little wonder I did not go running to her aid when I looked up to see her laying on the frozen mud during a wilderness wood gathering session. I hadn't seen her fall, but I knew she hadn't fallen from a great height, so I figured she would just jump right back up and keep gathering firewood. Meanwhile, she's thinking I'm cold-hearted for not racing to her side. She's thinking, I know she was only a little ways away, what is taking her so long to get here? I did eventually notice that she was not springing to her feet, so I at least asked her if she was okay. The ensuing moans and groans indicated that she was not. So I did run then. Took off her shoe and sock. Noticed swelling and bruising on the ankle. Had a back and forth discussion with her about the definition of the word "top" ("It hurts on the top." "Here?" I ask while pushing on the top her her ankle. "No, the top." "But Cherelyn, it's swollen on the side." "It hurts on the top." "Here?" I ask again, pushing on the top of her ankle. "No, the top. Oh, just go get Dennis!") I ran to get her husband. Helped carry her to the truck, toss her in, and tie an ice bag on (the side of) her ankle. So see, I helped. It's true that her husband and I continued to gather firewood for a half hour before leaving for the hospital, but hey, you can't waste a good tree. So three hours later we learned the ankle was broken, and I do promise, I will run next time.