wouldn’t be an injury without an insult

And as for the insult for this injury (below)…

After the doctor put on this godforsaken boot, I was finally able to go to the ladies room (I’d needed to pee since the moment I walked out of my house), where I discovered that my panties were on backwards. And I couldn’t turn them around because I couldn’t get my pants off over the boot.

I’m looking forward to whatever fecal cross contamination infection I have to look forward to…


do you see the sign on my back? it says “kick me.”

Remember that voice I was telling you about? The one that ate paint chips as a child and had NO business making suggestions about how I live my life? The one that told me that if I could just run eight miles once, I would have no problem completing a half marathon?

Well, that voice can go straight to hell. Hell, I say.

It turns out the voice wasn’t completely wrong. One can actually pound out 13.1 miles with insufficient training. One can even do it in pretty good time. So long as one is willing to risk getting two, yes two, stress fractures in her foot.

Yes, my friends, I am writing this blog post from my couch, my booted foot propped up on the ottoman so that the blood can stop pooling near my ankle giving the illusion that I have (gasp) cankles. I can’t decide which is worse, my humiliation or my self pity.

I have an MRI tomorrow morning and I’m still holding out hope that I’m going to show up, their going to take a looksie and then tell me that actually nothing is wrong. I can take off this #&$#!(*& boot and coast through the next two weeks until it’s time for me to go to Hawaii on vacay.

Oh, yes, that’s right. I am supposed to be hiking the mountains and trails of Kauai in less than two weeks. Not to mention the private yoga lessons that I’m been looking forward to for the better half of 2010.

I lied. The self pity is way worse than the humiliation.

The doctor has made a medical suggestion that I not doing any walking. I made a medical suggestion that he reevaluate my course of treatment. In order to avoid walking to work I have to, uhh, walk to the train station, take a train, switch to another train, and then, uhh, walk to work from the station. It is ridiculous. I live less than a mile from my office.

So, for now, I’m going to sit here feeling very, very sorry for myself and hoping that whatever is wrong with my foot is all a crazy mix up.

Clearly it’s making me cranky.

Reblog this post [with Zemanta]