Faking It
by Tom Woods
This morning,
halfway through my boiled egg and Marmite
soldiers, I decided today would be different. I
would be exciting, or at the very least,
interesting. I’d fake a limp. It begins with
the commitment. You don’t just have a limp;
you inherit a tragic back story that exists
entirely in the furrow of your brow. I leaned
literally into the persona of a man who had his
legs taken from under him by a malicious lower
league defender.
The first step
was the most crucial. I had to choose my "bad"
leg. Left felt intellectual, like a gouty ridden
Victorian poet contemplating a sonnet. Right felt
blue collar, like a retired scaffolder who
instinctively looks for his van whenever it rains.
Once decided, I locked that knee. I became a
human compass, drawing jagged, agonizing circles
on the hardwood as I navigated toward the kettle.
The mechanics
of the deception were simple yet demanding. A
good limp is ten percent physical ailment and
ninety percent performance art. To truly sell it,
I practiced the sharp intake of breath, to be
deployed whenever I encountered a treacherous
transition from carpet to tile. I mastered the
furniture pivot, clutching the back of a kitchen
chair for stability like it was a life raft in
the North Atlantic. Most importantly, I perfected
the phantom wince gazing down at my kneecap with
the deep, silent betrayal usually reserved for a
cheating spouse.
By 8:15 AM, I’d
reached the public phase. This is where the
dopamine hit. I hobbled into the café and
suddenly, I was the protagonist of a gritty soap
opera. People held doors open with looks of
profound, watery pity. I accepted these gestures
with a stoic, brave nod that said, "Don't
weep for me, Brenda, I'll walk again...
eventually."
The problem
with a fake limp is the consistency trap. About
two hours in, I realized I’d been limping on
the left leg, but I’d just used my left foot
to catch a falling tea bag with the effortless
grace of a Brazilian forward. I had to quickly
transition into a full body spasm to mask the
recovery. When a coworker asked if I was alright,
I muttered about an "old sports injury,"
despite having never been anywhere near a gym
since senior school.
By noon, my
actual good leg was screaming. Because I’d
been overcompensating, my right hip felt like it
was being gnawed on by a disgruntled beaver. I
was now a victim of my own success; I had
successfully given myself a real injury to
justify the fake one. I found myself limping with
the other leg entirely and this time, the agony
was genuine. The show had to go on, even if the
audience was only my own regret.
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