pardon, your rant is showing

*big sigh*  The whole broken foot thing was nice for the first couple days.  In the recent past I’d contemplated the idea of taking a day off just for the hell of it, and voila, a forced vacation!  Sweet, right?

Well, not really.

Cyspar not only made it to level 57, but she kept on going and reached level 58 over the weekend.  I have to say, though, that’s the most I’ve accomplished, outside of going back to work.

It is maddeningly frustrating to not just be able to hop off the couch and do something without making an ordeal of it, and even when I’m up, I’m limited as to what types of activities I can do.  Anything that involves carrying stuff is out, since both hands are usually grappling with the dreaded crutches.  Also, anything that requires standing for long periods of time is difficult… I can make it through a 10 minute shower before my right leg starts to cramp.  And stairs are only to be used in emergencies, which is great, because our bathroom at home is – you guessed it – upstairs.

True to his nature, the S.O. has been incredibly helpful, but I’m ultimately frustrated because I want to have freedom of movement again!  Also, not to have to wear a baggie over my stocking-ed foot when it rains, because I’m certain the high fashion gurus will back me up when I say Hannaford grocery bags are so not what they’re wearing in Paris these days.

My coworkers have taken to calling me “Hopalong,” which would be funny if it weren’t so true.  My 15 minute break involves crutching to the bathroom and back – down the loooong hallway, through two sets of (heavy!) fire doors, and into the tiny bathroom stall.  Thankfully the coworkers have also been great about getting lunch ready for me (yay for the 3-minute microwavable meal), or filling up my water bottle at the cooler, and they’ve managed to ask me only sixteen gajillion times “how on earth did you break your foot?”  I wish I could say I was bungee jumping in the Grand Canyon and the cord broke, while I managed to land on only one foot – the broken one – heroically saving a puppy in the process.  Unfortunately the real answer is, “I fell because I’m a klutz.”

And I do feel a bit silly about that, because only little old ladies “have a fall” and break things, right?  A few more weeks of this, though, and I’ll be shaking my crutches at strangers on the street and mumbling incoherantly to myself.  Just put me in Depends and call me Eleanor.

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