While living in Los Angeles in the early 90s I did my best to participate in the local television scene. I was an audience member and door prize winner on The Price Is Right; I seriously considered Wheel of Fortune; and tried like mad to get my friends to audition with me for cutting edge dating show. Sadly, although I did win the door prize, I ended up filing ‘single’ on my tax return, paid 25% tax on my winnings, and seem to always be one spin away from a win.
Years later, still filing single, no longer winning door prizes (unless you count the packages left for me by delivery men), and physically unable to spin the wheel, I wondered if I might end up meeting a fellow gimp along my rehab path. Although I haven’t met anyone at the hospital, imaging facility, doctor’s office, or physical therapy clinic, I have experienced some broken love connections.
The first broken love connection occurred when I was Gladys Kravitzing one afternoon and, subsequently, ended up helping a man who crashed on his crotch rocket. Since that day, he has hobbled by several times, asking MiniMe for ‘the girl with the broken arm,’ and offering food, drink, huka, anything for my kindness. No good deed goes unpunished – especially when the recipient knows where you live.
The second broken love connection occurred when, while sitting on my chaise lounge rehabbing and not helping strangers, I noticed (on Facebook) that a former lover ruptured his quadriceps tendon. For a fellow gimp, and under different circumstances, this would be a dream come true – a partner in crime to help pass crippled time. Unfortunately, he lives in a different state, it has been years since we were together, he is in a relationship, and Facebook has afforded both of us the luxury of knowing each other better than we ever did when we knew each other in a biblical sense.
Alas, I’ll continue to file ‘single;’ I’ll set my DVR to record Wheel of Fortune; and I’ll wait for the next big dating show to be announced. If Pat Sajak and Vanna White are still around at that time they could host the show. Perhaps we could call it “Metamucil Mates” and, instead of buying vowels, we’ll buy bowels; instead of consonants, catheters (that one was for you Ice Cream Man). Our broken love connections can fuse together like a fractured bone – with no guarantee of full recovery.