My first broken bone was in my foot. Ah, youth. I hobbled around for a day or two before doing anything about it. Yes it hurt, but I didn’t know it was a bad hurt (i.e. requiring repair), only a severe one (i.e. fucking ouch). I’ve since broken the other foot along with a few random bits and pieces, but that was then. Let’s talk about now.
You should have seen my laughably ridiculous pratfall in a parking lot yesterday. I felt my ankle wrench, but over half an hour passed before it resisted holding my weight. Nice to know I can still be naïve. I honestly didn’t think I was injured.
Now I’m stumping around the house with a cane, feeling stupid. Staying off a body part while it mends is a matter of scheduling. Knock wood, I have time to heal. What I lack is the temperament. It’s embarrassing to admit that I’m bored, even though there are words to type and books to read. Languishing in front of a monitor is only pleasant when it’s by choice.
The trick is to control the whining, which I hope to do as soon as I finish this. It’s been over a decade since I wasn’t properly ambulatory, but I once had the knack, I just have to remember how. That, and wait for it to be over.
With my foot bound in an ancient ace bandage, propped up on a little green pillow with tassels on my desk, I’m either hypochondriac enough or paranoid enough to worry that my muscles will atrophy in three days. Maybe I should give up and learn needlepoint.
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