I have had a boot on my foot for nine weeks now.
NINE.
I have gained enough weight to need to go back into my still-too-big-but-more-forgiving-for-a-day’s-wear jeans. I stepped on the scale yesterday. Six pounds seems to be the magic number after all of that time not working out and holiday-ing.
And, you know, whatever. It is what it is. I had my follow-up the week between Christmas and New Year’s and I have another two weeks to go, and have thus far had two of the experimental hot laser treatments done to my heel. I’ll tack on some more this week, provided my work schedule allows for it. He seems to think I’m in the home stretch, but rumor has it that “home stretch” after the boot comes off is another six weeks.
SIX WEEKS.
None of this would concern me had it not been for the unfortunate timing of the Chicago Park District. This winter, they’ve closed my local pool. For the winter. I still haven’t learned when it’ll open again, though I hope it’s soon. I care less about the weight gain than I do the sheer stagnation. I will have lost the majority of what I gained during the summer and fall months, as far as athleticism is concerned, and frankly I’m sad to have no physical outlet. I miss the rush and the stress management that comes from a good workout.
I’ve bandied about just going to the gym to do some upper body weight training, and I’m holding out hope that I’ll at least be able to start walking again, or something else that’s low-impact, but I know that’s a tall order.
So for now I sit, literally, and wait. And hobble around on this stupid boot, with these stupid crutches, hungry and irritated.
If I had a spare good foot, I use it to kick myself for being so stupid this Fall. Gah.
