Hobbit-Monkey summit was going swimmingly up until last night, when, after a brisk hike at Walnut Creek, I demanded a visit to Barton Springs for late-night free swim. We were waiting in the dark for the gates to open when I misstepped, tumbled down a short set of uneven, limestone steps and crack! crunch! and crack! -ed both of my ankles. One is clearly the sprained. The other, I think, is also sprained, though Tyson seems to think I could have torn or broken something. I’ve broken enough bones in my life to know what that feels like, and I think not.
This is not to say my feet aren’t two throbbing, prickling blocks of solid pain hanging from the ends of my legs. I can’t put any weight on either, which creates an interesting scenario. We’ve settled on what seems to be the best plan for now, which is me scooting around on my butt in small spaces (like the bathroom) then throwing myself bodily into whatever awkward position I’m trying to achieve. For more open spaces, I haul myself up into my desk chair and Tyson rolls me around. It’s definitely drawn my attention to the work I need to accomplish in terms of upper-body strength. I’m not sure how this is going to work when he’s not here. I need little rollers taped to my legs like those dogs with two feet sometimes get. I bet I could book on those things.
Now the mood of our summit is dampened. Heathermonkey received less than desirable news via email from her department yesterday when she woke up (she’s in grad school), and is now working furiously outside in the sunroom while I tap away here in the dark cave of the living room. She may as well be back in Berkley, and I feel guilty and jerkish for hurting myself in the middle of her vacation.
Heathermonkey, Tytron, and Clevebroh (the roomie) have now departed for fun time at the river, and here I am. Alone. Stranded. Bored. Thinking maybe now that no one is around to see my unattractive undulations and grunting, I might be able to hobble my way to ice cream and sit on the floor in front of the freezer with my feet in it and chow on some mint chip. But that doesn’t work out so well. I’m back in my desk chair now, but only just having narrowly averted further injury. And I didn’t make it even close to the ice cream. Sad face.
I’m trying to view this event in a positive light. There is a small part of me, the superstitious part that maybe still doesn’t step on sidewalk cracks, or that part of me who thinks if I change that one thing that was in place when that one good thing happened, that the good things won’t happen again – that part ominously whispers: The writing, it will kill you. You have committed, now suffer the consequences. An Invisible Kathy Bates is now attempting to break your ankles so you will finish your writing before the deadline. This is why you’re home while your friends are out. Had you finished your writing for the week, Invisible Kathy Bates wouldn’t have had to hurt you. She hurts you because she believes in you. She hurts so you will write.
And so I end up starting this overly ambitious attempt at something in second person narrative, because I’ve always wanted to do that even though I know it’s a bad idea. And it all collapses because my story is trite and pointless and the constant struggle not to revert into third person is wearing on my brain. Lego Harry Potter, it is.
I have been defeated in my quest for productivity on this day, but there will be other days, and they will come with their own trials sooner than I want. For now, I have a wizard to make and some Lego monsters to slay. Perhaps I will even conquer my ice cream dream this evening when I am numb with wine and exhaustion and too crazed with inactivity to care about my aching feet.
Good day to you. I SAID GOOD DAY.