I have a sprained ankle. Why? Because I am weak like my father. My dad claims to be weak but obtained sharp shooter status in the Army, and I have seen him do a handstand and forward flip and stick the landing, so I believe he is lying. Still, I like to say I am weak like my father when I fail to meet up to my female relatives’ strengths and abilities.
To wit: one of my cousins runs marathons, one builds houses, one hunts deer—with a bow—and cans her kill. All have full-time jobs and kids, some of which have been raised to adulthood already. I like to sit on the sofa with a bag of chips and read a book. Paper, not e-books. E-readers hurt my eyes.
So no one was surprised to hear I sprained my ankle falling off the driveway. Specifically, carrying a tub of dirt while gardening because I have declared it Spring in the mountains even though it snowed yesterday, I misstepped and caught half my foot on the driveway and the other half in a lawn divot (I blame the dog for this). Fortunately I did not drop the tub of dirt onto my injured foot when the pain struck or I’m certain I would be in traction for weeks. As it was, I cursed, saw stars, and hobbled around the driveway in a circle like a chicken with its head and one leg cut off, not necessarily in that order.
Then I called on my total bad ass husband (PTST) to bring me a bag of ice so I didn’t have to drag my fat ass and muddy shoes through the house to get it. (My husband, although a total bad ass, is weak by default of being born a city-dweller. I have no such excuse.) He immediately requested I go to the ER to have my ankle checked, especially after I advised him it was the same ankle I had broken and sprained in the past. Apparently somewhere deep inside me I have a little mountain strength (read: stubbornness) because I absolutely refused, even though by this point the ankle was swollen and discolored and walking was a relative term for me.
My treatment of choice was to sit on the sofa with a bag of chips and a book and ice on my foot and whine about it. This worked out great–at least for me, husband not so much—for one day. Then I realized that we have a vacation scheduled in six weeks. And no one wants to be on vacation with a leg cast or crutches, so off to the ER we went to get confirmation that the ankle was not broken and no cast was required.
Here’s a good medical advancement in the last twenty years: no more restrictions for a sprained ankle. Just keep it elevated and iced as much as possible and go about your business. And would you like to know why there are no restrictions? Because it hurts like a motherfucker to put weight on a sprained ankle.
So now I am diagnosed and hobbled, smack dab in the middle of mulching season. My guess is that Jesus did this on purpose because He saw me try to resume my running routine earlier in the week and knew that my fat, weak ass would end up in a ditch or the cardiac care unit if something wasn’t done to stop me. So I am trying really hard not to make Jesus cry by overdoing while I recover, but it is not easy. Side note: it is a mystery to me how I can be both weak and an overdoer.
Each Walmart trip begins and ends with flowers crying out to me to take them home and plant them, along with replacement tomato and pepper plants for my seedlings that I killed. Yes, I have learned that gardening is also an area in which I am weak. The Topsy Turvy planter sits empty in the yard, yelling for me to hang the growing bags filled with strawberries. The deer buffet wants some tasty pansies added for color and flavor. So much fun gardening to be done; I can’t wait to put away this computer and get out there.
Wait a minute… What is that shooting pain in my leg? Oh yeah, maybe I’ll just sit here and eat some more chips. Where my reading glasses???