I should’ve known something was up when I woke with the Who’s the Boss opening theme stuck in my head. I managed to lever myself out of bed, took one look at how Boxnoggin was prancing around the house, and decided he needed to be in his harness for outside time just in case. It’s a good thing, too, because my ankle gave out on the deck stairs and down I went like a tonne of bricks.
It may have been a stealthed pinecone. (Well, technically fir cone, but who’s counting?) I was a bit too busy to look for proof.
The music stopped right before it happened, and didn’t come back until I hobbled to my desk chair. I’d’ve preferred it to stay away, of course–oh, the tune is unobjectionable, and at least it wasn’t Charles in Charge, but still. (I’ll take Tony Danza holding me closer over that Baio jerk anytime.) I’m probably not going to get a run today, and the jury is out on whether or not I’ll even be able to walk Boxnoggin. Who is moderately displeased that he had his jacket on for pee-time, but I couldn’t take the risk of him getting it in his fool head to chase something.
I suppose things work out as they’re meant to, but ouch. This is upsetting, and I was already feeling sideways because I haven’t been able to run as much as I need to this past week. And now it’ll be even longer before I can lace up and hit the pavement. Gods damn it.
At least I have coffee, and I don’t need my ankle in order to fire up the webcam and tell you guys all about Dracula. But Christ on a cracker with a side of pimento, I didn’t need a sprained–or strained–ankle. I never need one, but I particularly don’t now.
I should get some breakfast and a moderately large amount of ibuprofen down the hatch. Be gentle with yourselves today, my beloveds. Yes, it’s Friday, but that is apparently no insurance…