I’m told that babies are born perfect. Sure they come out covered in goo, screaming their heads off and with fingernails that can etch glass… but more/less perfect, right? I think when the doctor suctioned said goo out of my nose he sucked all of my natural-born perfection and patience with it.
Life with a broken foot requires a surplus of patience one can draw from when the congenital amount runs dry. And seein’ that I had very little to begin with, life with me ain’t so much fun lately.
I can’t drive. I can’t bike. I can’t hike. I can’t spin. I can’t walk long distances without my toes going numb. And last week the doctor told me *at least* four more weeks in the boot and then an indefinite amount of time in “stiff-soled” shoes. Whatever those are they sound sexy for sure. If I didn’t think it would’ve damaged my foot worse I would’ve kicked him. I settled for a good ol’ fashioned grown-up cry instead. I hope he felt uncomfortable.
Alas. Positive thinking, people!!
Things I’ve learned I CAN do well with a broken foot:
~ negatively judge able-bodied people for every moment they aren’t driving, biking, hiking, spinning or otherwise moving
~ irrationally go from zero to FRUSTRATED in 3.25 seconds flat
~ drink (OK. OK. This one’s the same when I have two working feet.)
~ come up with a different, embellished explanation each time someone asks me how it happened
~ panic and cry when thinking too much about “What if I’m never the same again!?!?”
~ feel guilty about every morsel that goes into my mouth (except alcohol, since it’s in this positive-things list) because I can’t burn it off
Hmm, come to think of it, all of the above is not unlike what I imagine the teetering emotional state of a pregnant woman might be. Minus the drinking bit of course. And those respected ladies are growing perfection inside of them. I sense a lesson here. Too bad I don’t quite have the patience to figure out what it is.