Breaking limbs — even fake breaking limbs — is never fun, unless you work for Motif. It was a Sunday, or was it a Saturday? Either way it was a good day to (fake) break something. As Jeune Plasson and I strolled into work we hardly knew what to expect.
Richard Griffin sat at our conference table with a bowl of water, patiently awaiting our arrival. We engaged in some small talk about the womanly allure of my legs before he went to town on my femur.
Griffin convinced me to slip into a sleek and slightly dirty prop sock, reached for a pair of scissors and snipped off the toes — the sock toes, that is. Then the gauze came out, followed immediately by the plaster; my leg was being wrapped and there was no turning back. Griffin was so fast at wrapping this cast that we only had time to get one photo of it actually happening.
After the lukewarm plaster is applied, it heats up then hardens in place. This was a strange sensation on my very feminine, yet hairy leg, especially when it went cold and I lost all mobility in my ankle. We only did two layers of plaster and thank god we didn’t do more. I’m a fairly anxious person, and the claustrophobia came on strong and fast.
Before long I was flailing my leg around, furiously trying to escape my cast like a dog in a cone of shame. We managed to get a few good shots of my sexy MILF (mummy I’d like to fondle) leg before I finally lost my cool. It didn’t help that Griffin was now coming at me with a pair of scissors. But our cutting tools were about as useful as safety scissors. We spent the next, like, hour cutting this thing off with three different pairs of shears, a bone saw and even a blow torch.
One minor flesh wound and several silent panic attacks later, I was free as an eagle. Griffin came through where literally no doctor, nurse, hospital or even a single doula would. It turns out casts aren’t made out of plaster anymore, and after the ordeal I went through, I can see why.