A week ago, I severely sprained my right ankle. It’s the second time in the past few years I’ve done this, but the first set of circumstances was much more entertaining. A couple of years ago, I was treated to a Cardinals vs. Cubs game for my birthday, and let’s just say the biggest lesson I learned that night was to never again attempt to sit on the handrail of a moving escalator (I may or may not have had a few beers at the ballpark). Fast-forward to a week ago: I was trying to cram large pieces of wall paneling into the garbage truck. One piece in particular was being contrary, so I thought it just needed a quick jump-shove. Unfortunately, when I landed I came down on the side of my foot, not the bottom.
So I’m a gimp right now. But I haven’t been completely unproductive; last Sunday I read the end of one book (John Saul’s The Right Hand of Evil), started and finished another book (Sammy Hagar’s Red: My Uncensored Life in Rock), and then started a third book (American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis). I don’t think I’ve read that much in one day since I was a kid. It felt oddly fulfilling.
But my ankle still bothers me, and it’s just getting frustrating now. Stairs, whether it’s twenty or two, are a process. Sitting with my feet down makes my ankle ache; sitting with them up is just inconvenient. Wrap it, unwrap it. Ice, no ice. Anyone who has had a high ankle sprain—let alone two—can back me up on this. It quickly becomes a very annoying injury that grabs every time you try to go anywhere.
And on top of everything, I foresee this as something I’ll be prone to re-injure for the rest of my life. Not when I’m out for a run…or at the boxing gym, jumping rope or hitting the bags…but when I’m throwing trash into a truck or surfing the escalator handrail. Maybe I should just stop doing stupid shit. I’ll probably live longer.