Hobbled

I have been.  This week has drug on...and on.  Confined to bed, off your feet, sit the hell down, couch po-taaaay-toe.  Remember that last post about my spectacular ability to mess my butt up?  Well, this time I have succeeded in award-winning fashion.  Plantar fasciitis.  No, it's not a fungus and you can't catch it off a water fountain, (my first thoughts)  however, it makes one quite suddenly aware of the gift of just....standing. 


The basic run-down is that I have jacked up the arches of my feet as a "recreational athlete" by working out without proper support--for my FEET! (good grief)  The fun part is that recovering from this includes stretches, anti-inflam drugs, wearing shoes with arch supports, and wait--here's the best--icing your feet.  Can you imagine a more enjoyable way to spend the afternoon on a cold February day than ICING YOUR FEET?!?  Yep.  Joyous.  And when we got to this part:


"Most patients find relief within about three months, and over 90% within one year."


I had a heart-attack. 


Threeeeeee months?  Most?  Aaaaaak.  I am the shoeless wonder!  I got married barefoot.  I believe I own....seriously, FIVE pairs of shoes. (I swear, I am female)  One brown pair of sexy sandals, one black, one pair of converse one stars, a brown something or other, and black goes-with-black-slacks-that-I-wear-at-the-office shoes.  And that's it.  Honestly, the shoe-gene skipped me completely  (made up for in the height department, I think) and the thought of having to wear klunky supports in the summer??

 
And so, I sit.  And for those of you that truly know me, This. Is. Killing. Me.  See, the reason that I am a bruised and bandaged walking commercial for Johnson & Johnson on a regular basis, is that I never sit down!  I suppose it was the whole "raised on a ranch with three hundred animals and walked a mile to the bus stop" schtick that caused this, but I am utterly incapable of watching daytime tv.  From drywalling to painting to cooking--with three boys under the age of 12, there isn't a day I don't do laundry.  Nerf gun wars need reffed, bandaids applied (just like their mama, them boys) and the crazy dog is still a puppy--sitting down just isn't an option!  Only now? 


It's an order.


And this week.....I have sat.  I have read more.  I have listened more.  One day I after I finished a novel, I sat and just watched out my living room window...for like an hour.  I sketched out a plan for a possible book.  I wrote letters--REAL in-an-envelope letters to several of my friends I haven't seen in years and began the Rosetta Stone program to learn Italian.  The boys waited on me a bit, and helped out with the dog waaaay more.  And Lord help me, I served Tuna Helper for dinner one night. (cringe) 


You know...I had time to really think.  Some time to reflect.  In-between fits of swearing at ice-packs, I noticed that the light in my house--even on cloudy days--is lovely.  And the sweetest old lady I've never seen before walks her very old dog past my house every day about noon.

I still don't like it.  Not. One. Bit.  But I think it might be a good idea to be hobbled every now and again.  Just to spend time with....myself.

I Should have Come With A Warning Label

I am a menace.  To myself, that is.  The rest of the planet is safe....well, unless you happen to be walking behind me, close enough to catch a flailing arm as I attempt a hack-kneed swan dive in the middle of the sidewalk, complete with a set of shrieking howls resembling those of mating alley cats.  And dear God help you if you are in front of me when I'm attempting to negotiate the spinny door at the hospital or board the escalator in the mall. (stupid things should have harnesses) There will be causalities.  Why, do you ask, do I provide such entertainment on a regular basis for the throngs that gather?

Oh baby, I was born this way.

While reaching for the salad dressing the other night, I was stopped by my husband's: "Oh my WORD honey, what did you DO to your hand?!?"  I'm totally blank.  "Hmmm?" I ask.  "Look at your hand!" he points to the fingers clutching the blue cheese like I'm about to be robbed.  Upon closer inspection, I began to count....two burns, a slice across my ring finger, my first knuckle was missing, and there is an inch and a half gash down the center of my hand.  Admittedly, it was a hot mess.  "This is the new sexy." I told him.

I remember losing the knuckle while adjusting my stationary bike. (imagine my husband laughing out loud as I'm attempting to explain this. "You got hurt riding a stationary bike?!")  The gash was acquired while cleaning under the microwave which had a previously unknown broken plastic thingy that removed my flesh like Satan's melon baller--of course I irritate it every time I get my phone out of my pocket or put gloves on, so I've jacked it up even more.  The rest? 

Not. A. Clue.

It's been like this for--ever.  Today is my birthday and I have been a poster child for band aides and neosporin for so long I should demand shares in the company! (right now my left knee is a stunning rainbow of color as I dropped the largest drawer in the guest room dresser two days ago and caught it with my leg)  I think I've developed some kind of pain nerve memory block.  Honestly, you could hold a gun to my head and demand to know how I bruised the entire back of my arm last week and I would have to die.  I have NO recollection whatsoever!  I fall UPstairs.  I trip over carpets like a drunk ballerina with a death wish.  I now have an escort that seems to follow me around Home Depot, I think they were worried there would be lawsuits.   

Years ago I went to visit one of my best friends in Florida.  It was to be a romp of a weekend; fly down on Friday, back on Sunday.  I left a chipper, smiling girl with a bounce in her step.  48 hours later I returned with the skin missing from half my face (scraped it along the bottom of a pool), limping (pulled my hamstring in a wild game of cosmic bowling), and gasping like an emphysema commercial as I had caught some plague while guzzling the apartment complex pool water.  I had to get shots.  Missed a week of work to recover from that "two day girl get-a-way."

I couldn't watch The Hangover.  It was entirely too real.

I think we should have punch cards for the doctor's office...."nine visits and the tenth one is FREE!" 

I own enough ace bandages to mummify Paula Deen.

Scrapes are sexy.