In which your correspondent’s feet continue gimpy
Sometimes I think it might be refreshing to break my arm.
I don’t want a broken arm, of course. But if I’m going to injure something, it might be a nice change of pace to have it be something on the upper half of my body, instead of the lower.
What brings this on? Oh, the little toe of my left foot, which I have just broken for the third freaking time. Also the middle toe of that foot, which is sprained: a nice companion to the sprain in the big toe of my right foot that I suffered last year. And the ankle surgery when I was nine, and the ankle surgery when I was twenty-nine — same ankle, natch — not to mention the countless sprains on that front over the years. And (for a minor change of pace) the damaged cartilege in my left knee, and the problem with the saphenous nerve in my right leg that never did get explained but eventually went away.
But I suppose between me and my brother’s four broken arms*, we balance out. Whoever was responsible for dealing out injuries to my family really needed to shuffle the deck better.
Anyway, in the grand scheme of things this is minor; I probably won’t even get it x-rayed. (There’s no point unless the fracture is displaced enough to potentially cause mobility problems later on, and at the moment there’s no particular reason to think that’s the case.) It is certainly not truepenny‘s recent catastrophe with her ankle. But I gotta say that it’s bloody annoying.
*That is, he’s had a broken arm four times. He does not have four arms that got broken.