Not Busy

Two weeks ago last Saturday, I did something weird to my right foot. I'm still not sure what, exactly. Neither is the chiropractor. (And this is the chiropractor that can put Ron's feet back together so that his sprains heal in half the time.) Anyway, it hurts. It feels wrong, like something's where it shouldn't be and won't stay in where it belongs. And I keep re-aggravating it, probably because I strongly prefer to walk barefoot on any terrain smoother than glass shards.

Sunday morning, after walking about in the dark on gravel the night before (why? why not?), it was worse than ever. So I decided this was the week, with all the excitement over, that I would really take the chiropractor's advice seriously. Put padding on the sore spot. Put shoes on. Rest my foot.

I hate shoes. I don't wear shoes at home even in January. From April through October, I only wear sandals when I go out. Wearing socks and tennis shoes every day at home in July is unthinkable. My feet think they've been sent to jail.

And sitting all day. (Well, all the day that I'm not making sure we have food and clothes. The kids are trying to help, but they are still at the stage where they get stalled at a critical moment, like a hot pan on the stove or turning the dial on the washing machine.) I hate sitting. Sitting in a chair or on a couch for too long actually gives me motion sickness, especially if anybody touches the chair. I feel every little jiggle. Usually I combat this by getting up and walking around a lot.

And I still don't have any idea if it's going to work. It feels fine if I'm not walking on it. So how can I tell if it's getting better? I'll probably be crippled for life and the ducklings will have their lives stunted having to push their parents around in wheelchairs. I get motion sick from wheelchairs.

Whine, whine, whine.