"A what?" I gasped in shock.
"A Bakers Cyst," he said. "Which suprises me. I've never seen one at such a young age."
"How old are they usually?"
"65."
"Does this mean I'm going to break a hip next week and start collecting Social Security?" At this images of ghetto Somalis checking on social security checks and food stamps comes to my mind.
"No," he said. "But you might need to..."
He looked at my feet.
"Rethink your choice of foot wear."
This must be a horror movie.
"Your footwear puts too much pressure on your knee. No more heels."
I sat there in silence.
"Let's talk about your exercise program for a minute. You're a runner and..."
"When can I wear heals again?"
"You injured your knee, and that's the first thing you're asking me?"
"Yes," I said.
"Eight to ten weeks."
The camera zooms in on Miss Fabulous (studente) . Her eyes are wide. She is frozen with terror.
"Eight to ten WEEKS?"
"Yes. Is this a problem?"
"Of course it's a problem. Spring is just around the corner. And there are so many things I won't be able to do."
"Like bike ride or exercise outside?"
"Hell no," I said. "Wedges, espadrilles, strappy sandals."
"You might consider a pair of orthodics."
"I might consider euthenasia."
He hands me a brace. Goes into detail about a physical therapy program. "Do those exercies two to three times a day and it should get better."
He stands in the doorway.
"Studente, I know it's none of my business, but -- how many pairs of shoes do you own?"
"For which season?"
He smiled.
"See you in a month."
I got dressed. Flat shoes. Flat shoes? I don't OWN a pair of flat shoes. All of my pants are hemmed for shoes with at least a two inch heel.
It was then I woke up to from my nightmare
u are amazing 
