I'm getting the distinct impression that I'm missing some fairly major air-raid sirens, signal fires, red flashing lights, and concussion bombs.
First there was the whole shredded plantar fascia crap last fall that kept me from running for 6-7 months, and damn near face-planted me into surgery. I shrugged off that sign, worked my ass off, and yesterday went for a lovely 3.5 mile spin around the 'hood.
Came home, showered, gulped down lunch, and was running out the door to pick up Bella. Mr. ABF decided to come with as we were all headed to the library immediately following, and on the way out the door, he was telling me a delicious story about some friends of ours and how they swore in front of their 1.5 year old in the car. I turned around to look at Mr. ABF for the punch line, smile on my face already, stepped out the front door . . .
And turned my left ankle. Hard. Leaving my fucking house, I tell you.
It's not so bad that I can't hobble around on it, so I'm quietly thanking a year of rehab that focussed largely on strengthening my ankle and the muscle groups around it. But GODDAMMIT. There's a nice raquetball sized (and blue-colored) lump, and it hurts.
Which is leading me to question if there is in fact some all-mighty Diety who does not want me to run. In fact, this Diety does not want me to leave my house. I am apparently defying my destiny to sit on the couch for an eternity and bloat and become some high blood-pressure, obesity statistic. I don't know why I fight this god-given path of bon bons and daytime television and lumpy thighs and clogged arteries, but I do. And perhaps I should just succumb, and be with the lazy and out of shape.
Or maybe it's something else entirely:
On top of my now swollen ankle, Mr. ABF appears to have contracted pink eye. Which I find somewhat amusing seeing as usually these things spring from the child in the house, who remains blissfully clear-eyed (while she hacks up a lung), but I keep my chuckles to myself knowing full-well that in a mere 24 hours we will all be red, swollen, peering through gunky lids reaching for our appointed handtowels.
To make matters more interesting, my highly independent child who normally runs into school with nary a backward glance decided this morning she didn't want to go. Cue heartwrenching scene with her wrapped around my leg, screaming "Don't leave me!" while her teachers gave me the "What the fuck?" look. What the fuck indeed. I'm giving them 5 more minutes and then I fully expect that my now healthy child (who slept through the night with no coughing! Finally!) will have convinced someone that "she doesn't feel well" and they'll call and I'll go pick her up.
Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, she has an
Saturday a.m. she has the first of four
This week is not shaping up well at all, and I'm missing some signs here. I'm looking, and what I'm seeing is making me want to curl up in a ball and cry, and possibly throw myself into traffic. I'm looking up the significances in the Almighty Handbook, and the Almighty appears to be giving me -- and my family -- the middle finger. Well, fuck you, too.
Interpretations much appreciated.