3 posts tagged “ankle”

My evening:

Flaming crepes with rum, coconut, and ice cream.  I suspect the point behind the flambé was to burn off the alcohol in the rum.  They did not succeed.

Followed by a Gym Class Reunion Party.  We played tag and four square and drank.  Pictured with me in phys ed glory is my incomparably lovely friend Annabelle. 

For the win!

My morning:

Little gopher bastards turned the soccer pitch into an ankle-spraining mine field.  To add insult to potential injury, one of them kept poking his little head up during the game when the ball was in play on the other side of the field. 

On the one hand, I felt a bit guilty for stomping loudly all over his choice piece of real estate.  On the other, he's a rodent and I don't want a broken ankle.

I did a spirited slide tackle in the first half, which resulted in the surprisingly painful scrape pictured above.  Good thing I wore my short-shorts last night, as it'll be a while before I can rock them again.

My afternoon:

My local coffee shop has a selection called "Whim of the Barista".  It costs $5, and is exactly as described:  based on their highly variable and very whimsical inclinations, these excellent and extensively-trained (and many other adjectives for which I have no room) baristas whip up whatever the hell they feel like. 

Most of them make it very clear that this drink isn't an exercise in democracy.  If you order The Whim, you don't get to inquire or make requests.  You can mention things that you don't like, and they may or may not huffily oblige.  Imagine Google's "I'm Feeling Lucky" button, but with espresso and spices.  It's like playing with fire: dangerous, irresistible, fascinating.  Even though I'm terrified of paying $5 for a drink I hate, I can't stop ordering them.

This week I've had an iced latte flavored with cinnamon and peanut butter, and a latte with cocoa, ginger, and nutmeg.  This afternoon's whim: a savory-sweet clove cappuccino.  I continue to be enslaved by the whims of the baristas.

... as my Limerick-born cousin Nora Mulqueen would say.  And I am one.

I played indoor soccer last night without my brace for the first time since my injury.  I realized that I hadn't put it on just as the game started, and I thought to myself, "Oh... I sprained it months ago, and I've played on it for weeks.  It'll be fine."  Then the teeny voice in my head which I mostly try to ignore these days said, "You're totally going to get injured now.  You just jinxed yourself. Put your f'in brace on."  But I didn't listen, mostly pretending that I didn't hear.

So... I played indoor soccer last night without my brace for the first time since my injury, and consequently re-injured my ankle for the first time since my injury.  It wasn't trauma-induced, either.  We were setting up a goal kick, and I was just standing there catching my breath.  I shifted my weight from my right foot to my left and it just went out on me.  And I fell down.  And it hurt.  And I proceeded to hobble off the field and cry like a little baby.

Proper eejyut.

There's no swelling or bruising today, and I can bear weight on it... but it's tender and a bit on the dodgy side. 

My punishment?  Instead of buying fabulous books with my $25 Amazon gift certificate, I had to buy resistance bands and 4 rolls of medical tape.  Boo.

The aforementioned are the reasons I've been mysteriously absent of late.  Indulge my delusions, and let me believe that you've missed me.

Frankenankle - I sprained my ankle at my indoor game on Thursday evening.  It became alarmingly swollen that night, and the next day phased through putrid shades of purple and yellow.  Hence, the nickname.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form?

I'm hard-pressed to explain why an ankle injury stripped me of my desire to be bloggy, but I don't make the rules.

Wedding - I'm still having one.  In three short months, in fact.  And it ain't plannin' itself.  So I plan, and I fret, and I fuss... in a decidedly Elaina way.  The Elaina version of fretting and fussing includes apologizing to the lady at the bridal boutique for hating all the wedding gowns and explaining to the florist (with great difficulty) what is meant by "muted, prudelike flowers".

Cyclons - And my love affair with sci-fi continues to blossom.  Richard just bought Season 1 of Battlestar Galactica, and we've watched about 10 hours worth in the past 3 days.  And I'd rather be watching it right now than finishing this sentence.  *sigh*