The depression lingers.
Last night felt like a meeting of two electrically charged clouds. Lightning was eminent; lightning was prevalent. Maintaining an upbeat attitude after being told I was probably going to be out of the running for a week or more was unfathomable. Even my sixth episode of Veronica Mars, my second bowl of popcorn, a surprise visit from Kristin and Matt, and an order of garlicky cheesy bread wasn’t comforting.
So, like any good depressed runner, I had a drink.
And rather than calming my nerves, rather than settling my mind, I became even more depressed. Oops. Various irrational thoughts flooded my head:
Why didn’t alcohol fix my ankle?
Why did God do this to me?
What had a I done to deserve this?
Am I really this upset about something as small as not being able to run (which equates to not being able to eat)?
How am I going to survive the next week?
The irrationality began to grate on my nerves, as did Veronica Mars’ uber-chic fashion sense, so I went to bed.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I ripped off my Ace wrap — apparently 3am is the itching hour. (If midnight is the Witching Hour and 3 the Itching Hour, does it stand to reason that 1 is the Twitching Hour and 2 is the Quidditching Hour? Maybe not.)I awoke with a desperate need to not be housebound, and went to the pool. I was already Ace wrap-less, so might as well take advantage.
The main problem with an ankle injury is even swimming is out. You need floppy feet to swim. Floppy feet are produced by floppy ankles. I pulled for half an hour before I worried about injuring my arms, and then attempted to do some water running without jarring the ankle too much.
I should be happy, but instead I’m just contemplating undoing my father’s wonderful wrap job and going back to the pool in half an hour.
Or maybe I should nap. My swollen foot looks like it belongs more to Bilbo Baggins than me. Not sure if I need a second public viewing.