I SPRAINED MY ankle recently. This is very uncharacteristic of me, considering all the activity implied by the word "sprained." I don't necessarily lead a "sprained ankle" kind of lifestyle. I'm more a "crick" kind of guy. As in, "Dude, the way I passed out on your couch gave me a crick in my neck." That's more my caliber.

But, "I sprained my ankle"? Who the hell am I to say that? It's a phrase from another world. A world filled with phrases like: "My trainer said ..." or "At 5:30 this morning, after my jog ..." or "I'm sponsored by Nike." A world of mountain bikes and competitive sports and Lycra.

A world I could fit into only on the injured list.

How I sprained my ankle, on the other hand, is practically a flagship incident of my world. Karaoke. Yeah, you read that right. Karaoke. "Devil Went Down to Georgia," to answer your question. "Not too drunk," to answer the one after that.

It's the kind of incident you think will make a great story, but deflects all attempts at elaboration. In the retelling, adding nuance or atmosphere or emotion only detracts from the simple, humiliating facts: I was singing karaoke, began to dance, and rolled onto my ankle.

Yet, without fail, every time I recount these facts, I feel compelled to embellish them. First, by pointing out that I didn't actually fall. As if stumbling, desperately clinging to a stool, and screaming, "Karaoke injury!" into the microphone is more dignified. Then I usually try to slip in some implicit blame by alluding to the two "back-up singers" who actually started the ill-fated do-si-doing. And, of course, I point out that, before the incident, we were quite the hit. Nothing floods a karaoke dance floor like the Charlie Daniels Band. Finally, in a misguided attempt to save face, I always add, "But I finished the song" to the end of each retelling. This last little nugget guarantees my place as a sad and pathetic geek in the worldview of the listener.

So, let's not get bogged down in the details of "how." The point is, I sprained my ankle. I own about as much sporting equipment as a 12-year-old girl circa 1953, yet I now share a medical history with Shaq. How cool is that? The emergency-room attendant welcomed me with a wheelchair, for Christ's sake. A wheelchair. As I watched that padded chariot approach, it struck me: I may not lead a sprained-ankle lifestyle, but I am well suited for a sprained-ankle recovery.

The idea excited me on many levels. First, of course, there was the wheelchair. But I soon realized this was just ER procedure, and it would not be coming home with me to act as the liquor-store shuttle I envisioned. So next, my thoughts turned, as they often do, to drugs: Percodan; Demerol; Tylenol with Codeine. Sprained-ankle-lifestyle pharmaceuticals. No more crick-in-the-neck dope for me. Time to play with the big boys.

But the doctor wasn't going to let me off that easy. Probably because of some vague AMA principle regarding excessive drug prescriptions, he forced me to look past instant gratification to the more long-term benefits of my undeserved injury. I believe his exact words were, "Just take some Advil and stay off that ankle for a few days."

It was as if he had given voice to my entire philosophy of life. Years of living packed into a single phrase. Words worthy of an epitaph: "Alan Olifson: he stayed off his ankle." How good is that? Twelve hours ago, I was just lazy and inert; now, I am taking purposeful, evasive action. Same life, new lifestyle.

The next few days engulfed me in a whirlwind of inactivity: Doritos, videos, and record-breaking use of TiVo. On top of that, unlike a crick or a charley horse, the sprained ankle comes with a surprising array of accouterments: ice packs, Ace bandages, splints, crutches. A smorgasbord of sympathy. So, even covered in crumbs courtesy of the Frito-Lay company, I felt noble, if not athletic, lying on my couch.

But after what amounted to a staying-off-my-ankle bender, I sensed I needed something more. I mean, sure, my girlfriend rose to almost Florence Nightingale heights of care, and sympathy from friends and family is great, but, at a certain point, an injured man needs sympathy from the general public.

It was time to break out the crutches.

It's amazing how much quiet dignity a simple trip to Starbucks can engender when done on crutches. Especially when ordering "for here." The implication being, "Well, normally, with my active, on-the-move lifestyle, I'd order 'to go,' and enjoy my coffee while engaging in some physical activity that could, quite possibly, result in bodily injury. But, alas, I already pushed myself past the limits of physical endurance, and must now take a forced period of recuperation. So I'll just be on that easy chair reading the paper. And, what the heck, give me a Danish."

The crutches, unfortunately, became hard to justify after a week, even for someone with my questionable moral compass. The fear of being exposed as a gimp-fraud overwhelmed me. I had nightmares of getting caught using my left foot for load bearing, and having an angry mob introduce me to the business end of my own crutch. But even before ethics forced me to ditch the crutches, my friends' sympathy was on the wane. I mean, when the answer to "What happened?" is "Karaoke," it's amazing how quickly compassion can turn to schoolgirl giggling. By week two, "Do you need anything?" turned to "Well, we're going for a hike, see you later," which quickly degenerated into "I'm about to turn on the radio, make sure you don't hurt yourself again."

I doubt Derek Jeter or Kobe Bryant catch that kind of crap after a hard-earned sprain. Was I foolish to think I'd be accorded the same respect? Yes. Yes I was. As the heady days of my first week on the injured list become a faint (though, dammit, not drug-addled) memory, it's time I face the hard truth. A crick-in-the-neck man cannot live a sprained-ankle life. Even if he has a sprained ankle.

Alan Olifson, currently laid up with a nasty hangnail, can be reached at alan@olifson.com.