Wrong, I say.
Little bit of context. Last year, at a month's interval, I twisted (or sprained, not sure) my right ankle twice. It hurt like a bitch, not to mention the fact that falling on your face, while you're walking like the world's your oyster, has a knack for making you feel über ridiculous, and tends to indicate that the oyster has gone way past its best-before date.
The thing is, both times, I was wearing flip-flops. So most of my friends, instead of showing the commiseration and concern I was entitled to expect, pointed and laughed at me, advising me to get a crash course in walking (that unintentional pun is mine, thank you), and change shoes for orthopedic ones rather than trying to be trendy.
My osteopath asked me if everything was alright in my life, because "you know what they say, right, you twist your ankle, but are you really twisting your ankle?". I have to admit that he had a point. Each time, right after making a complete arse of myself, I did cry for help. Sob for help even. I got help the first time, as I had fallen from my pedestal right in front of a restaurant and the waiters rushed to my rescue, and I nearly killed everybody who'd surrounded me the second time, because they weren't helping, they were just smothering me. Apart from my niece, the little gem, who stood there looking scared that my ankle might explode, it was swelling so fast.
But I'll admit that I myself was a bit apprehensive of wearing flip-flops after that.
Well. Let me say it again, people were wrong. Why, just today, I had to run for the bus, because you just never know when they're going to go screeching into the horizon, AND I was wearing flip-flops, AND I was on the phone. The moving picture of a catastrophe in lurking.
HA! I sauntered gracefully onto the bus, and wasn't even out of breath. That rules flip-flops out of the equation, methinks.
However, both times, the first one right before, the second time the day after, I ran into Laurent Lucas, in two very different areas of Paris. Coincidence? I don't think so.