Notes From Foot Prison

Six weeks in and I'm still living life as "Frankenfoot". Still sitting with my booted appendage elevated when I'm not moving or hobbling around on two crutches until two angry callouses the size of small potholders have bloomed on either side of my torso. Still wearing only the pants that will fit over my boot as well as shirts or sweaters long enough to cover my expanding ass, given I can't exercise....let alone hurry to get anywhere.

I miss running, yoga and long walks on the river. I miss taking the stairs instead of the elevator and having my shoes match. I miss not having to consider every bite of food I put in my mouth for fear that I will continue to outgrow the one pair of pants that still fit me, after which I throw in the towel, take a second helping and pour myself a glass of wine. I feel like I'm standing still. Like a manatee in a Medic-Alert bracelet for falling risks, even though I've never fallen before.

I realize that all of this is temporary and that at some point I will no longer look like the relapse photo of a middle aged burnout after a hard weekend at Medieval Times. I will get rid of this food baby and get pedicures and wear skirts and feel all the feelings and not just the negative ones. I need some way to burn off the whatever that builds up after 9-10 hours of work every day.

In the meantime I drive to work and see runners on their morning route as they crest a hill all flush with endorphines. I check out Instagram where every yogi in my studio seems to be in competition for having the most obscenely comical number of handstand selfies that make me think in terms of #lookatme , #lookatmesomemore  #seemyawesome and I am resentful.  Like the custodians at my school who have opted not to sweep the classroom floors anymore but--instead--use giant leaf blowers to make a half-assed pass at the accumulated debris, I am not doing everything with my whole heart.

How do the contemplative nuns do it? The robed monks in their remote Tibetan silence? I've been still too long. I feel a cuss coming on and it's directed at me because the moment my foot touched ice on that parking lot crosswalk I had just finished mentally mocking a woman who was attempting to scale some frozen steps in a tight little skirt and high heeled boots. The words were still hanging inside their thought bubble over my head when I hit the ground like a wet sack of applesauce.

And the rest is history and x-rays.