I don't recall receiving an invitation to this loathsome affair, no pretty little note card festooned with balloons and sweets pushed its way into my mailbox. And I certainly did not offer to host this event nor offer my space as the venue. Apparently that doesn't matter, for here I am flopping around, a fish caught out at low tide.
I am struggling with tendonitis in my feet (the lower extremity equivalent of tennis elbow). First it was the extensor tendon in my left foot, followed shorty thereafter by the posterior tibial tendon in my right. I have endured physio for six weeks now. The guy does this thing called "frictioning the tendons". I have another name for it, a unique sequence of expletives that quite possibly would catch the attention of the cyber police. Let me just say that if you asked me to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10 that this frictioning inflicts, my response would be, "FORTY-BLOODY-SEVEN!"
I have iced my feet 3 times a day and faithfully done the prescribed exercises. I do solemnly confess though that I have not rested as I ought to have rested, and as a result there is no health in me, which is another way of saying recovery has been extremely slow.
For the past week however, I have repented from my waywardness and abstained from anything more than minimal walking. Sadly this sabbath appears to have put out the welcome mat for a pity party. Limited mobility it seems yields a whole lot of manure. For someone on the cusp of their sixtieth birthday, this is great fertile ground for reflections on personal morbidity and mortality, creeping decrepitude oozing from every crack and crevice.
Bring on the Pity Party!
Wait! Hang on a sec -- I've actually accomplished something worthwhile today! I've not only taken time to write, but I've even posted on my blog! That's TWO things done. Woo Hoo - I'm riding the wave...
Oh crap, I gotta go ice my feet. Sheesh!