The Poor Ankle

My ankles have taken quite a beating in their 30 odd years of life.

First there was all that energetic foot stamping from my Indian Classical Dance classes, which took place at least one a week for a period of 12 years.

Then there was the exuberant marching around in shiny boots while serving the Girl Guides need for military discipline. Which was a laugh, because none of us had the coordination or the stamina for it.

Finally, there was the excitment of racing around a basketball court for 4 odd years, dribbling, laying up and rebounding and defending, which so its fair share of ankle twists and skinned knees.

So is it any wonder, that while talking on the phone, and trying to avoid a drain grating, and thus inadvertently sinking my foot into a harmless pothole, my ankle would get fractured to the point where a bone fragment is now swimming loosely in all that swollen tissue.

Or that something is bleeding inside, which makes my right ankle look like a dark purple alien from the plant Zoorg?

Or that I have been asked to stay for my feet for 5 -7 days, thus missing the most important event at work that I worked my ass off coordinating and doing all the grunt work for?

The upside of course, is getting to have breakfast with the family for the first time in about 4 months, and the chance to generally lay in bed without feeling guilty.

But the timing couldn't be worse. This is a busy season. It's all hands on deck, pedal to the mettle, ain't over till the fat lady sings.

Except the fat lady has a fractured ankle.

Gah.