Esguince

Back tomorrow with Astorga and León. My absolute-I-swear-and-nothing-can-persuade-me-otherwise final (part time) day at work is May 26. In what I hope will be the courageous last stand of any remnant of my overachieving corporate self, I'm busy ensuring that I've done everything I ever wanted to do at the company, have left everything immeasurably better than I found it, have anticipated every possible future complication, and have left my beloved favorites (yes, all right, I have them) perfectly positioned to take over the world on my departure. All of that in 4 hours a day, 5 days a week. It may be ambitious, I am not sure.

Meanwhile, a word of advice.

Should you ever decide it's time to sprain an ankle, I'd recommend you sprain it in Spain.

I have extensive experience spraining ankles, and I can assure you, it's almost worth the injury for the comfort. In Spain, that is.

I have yet to say the word "esguince" (sprain) to anyone without the immediate response: What do you need? Do you have enough to eat? Shall I do your grocery shopping? Cook? Here, I thought I'd stop by with a gorgeous yellow plant. Where do you need me to drive you?

I don't mean to suggest that no one ever offered in the States, but it's the instinctive reflex of the reaction. I have to believe I have Spanish mothers to thank for this. Lesson number 12 in year 13 of Growing Up Spanish and Well Educated must be "buy groceries for the less-than-well." I've had the same experience everytime I've owned up to the sniffles.

I knew it was instinctive when an employee who's been battling me all week (as part of her cosmic mission to teach me patience and serenity) stopped dead in her Messenger tracks and asked me what I needed and what time she should arrive.

If you must sprain, I tell you, sprain in Spain.