I have hurt my right foot, I dunno how. I went for a run several Thursdays ago, the first run on a treadmill in some months, and recall thinking as I ran that I should be careful not to hurt myself. But I don’t recall it hurting the next day. I do recall a little pain on Saturday, when I went to see “Argo” and get theme Persian food with my friend Lisa. It hurt worse on Sunday, but not so much so that I couldn’t walk at a roughly normal pace for the half-mile round trip for a cone of “Gather ‘Round the Campfire” ice cream at Ample Hills in my ‘hood.
The pain built Monday, enough so that I decided not to go into work, although if we’re honest this may have been one part “My foot hurts! Wah!” and one part “Hey, a legitimate reason to work from home!” Tuesday I convinced myself it hurt less, though if we again shine the light of truth on the innermost-ish workings of my brain, it was because I desperately wanted to leave the house to buy the new Justin Cronin book, available for the first time that day. Walking the eight or nine blocks from the train, to the Barnes and Noble, to the office, was a mistake, and by time to go home, the foot hurt PROFOUNDLY.
Wednesday, again, work from home. Thursday, my hatred of doctors overcame the pain in my foot, and I told myself that if it was good enough to go to work, then it was good enough not to see a doctor. So I went to work. Or, should I say, shuffled to work? What do you call the motion of snails? Friday, the same thing, although it did feel better. I swear, mom, it did. Enough so that I took too many flights of stairs, and we were back to pain. More of the same the following week, and now I’m propping up my foot again with the added excuse of a hurricane to keep me indoors.
The good thing is, that, trapped in my apartment on a weekend, I can progress on these last two Bach posts. Thusly: Continue reading