I sprained my ankle.
(Had I been doing something salacious and fun it would not have been a story for the blog)
I sprained it just laying there, watching Friends. I moved my foot slightly left and immediately knew that had been a bad decision.
My mom’s favorite radio shows hosts joke you know you’re old when you injure yourself sleeping. So while I wasn’t technically asleep, I was lying in bed and that’s basically the same thing.
Especially since I am now “Take your calcium” years old.
My graduation doctor’s appointment was already scheduled for a few days later. I toughed it out until then so she could officially diagnosis me with being old. X-rays confirmed nothing was broken (which would have been a whole nother set of issues) but she still put me back in my beloved boot for three weeks.
After leaving the appointment and talking with Dr trying not to cry, I figured I better make the best of this. Not that I don’t love a good wallow. Enneagram 4’s wallow well. But it’s Christmas and little people buzz around me with excitement and countdowns and shaking their presents wrapped under the tree. I need to find my happy place for them if not for myself.
Kinda like I’m the Tiny Tim of our family Christmas.
So let’s get out of bed, take our anti-inflammatories, put on our medical boot, and get going.
I originally broke the ankle in August and you know what’s happening in August?
Heat. Lots and lots of heat.
Footwear made of BLACK plastic, polyester, and velcro that covers half your leg isn’t exactly cool and breezy. Not to mention the socks you need to wear to absorb the sweat.
But in December? YES and THANK YOU.
Thirty-one degrees requires warm boots. Fuzzy Ugs, cowboy boots, over-the-knee boots, platform boots. Whatever. This is PRIME TIME boot season.
And I am here for it.
Even medical boot here for it.
Leggings aren’t judging me…
The medical boot limits my outfit options. Jeans don’t fit over the boot and I don’t wear skinny jeans because I can’t stand the wrinkling. Either stay straight or get out of my life. I attempted to wear a maxi skirt this past Sunday but it kept getting stuck on the velcro and I’m not interested in ruining my beloved $2.98 thrifted skirt.
That leaves me with leggings. Athletic leggings, fleece-lined leggings, control-top leggings. All good and perfect gifts from above.
You know who doesn’t care if I eat another handful of chocolate covered gluten-free pretzels?
They’re not concerned if I have a cup of hot chocolate with my mini-marshmallows.
And perfectly fine with my love of chips and queso.
No zippers. No buttons. No bulky pockets. No bending and squatting to stretch them out after washing. No thinking about how much more comfortable they’d be if I’d just lose five pounds.
Leggings don’t care.
I can eat and not run and let Dr bring me apples and crunchy peanut butter at 8 pm because the leggings will still fit the next day.
And they are not judging me for any of it.
Here, have a side of Gratitude with that Frustration…
This thing slows me down.
Clearly, the pain does that too but dragging this boot around, limping because my other shoe doesn’t match the height of the boot, it puts a hitch in my get along.
And we all know during the holiday season people o.ver.flow. with patience and leisure time and no particular place to go. Lines of folks anxious to show one another the true meaning of Christmas.
Love and mercy.
So are any of those gospel-filled people getting frustrated with the injured woman moseying through the Walmart?
OF COURSE NOT.
While they get caught walking behind me, wishing the Universe or Santa or Danny Kay could somehow part the waters of holiday crowds and remove the limping soul slowing them down, a tiny piece of their heart is going to remember a loved one in their life who limped once.
Maybe their sweet grandmother had to ride one of the scooters to grocery shop. Their son who busted his knee at the state championship basketball game (God bless ’em, he made that shot though). Perhaps even their own season of limping through life because of an injury or grief or lack of comfortable footwear.
And, I hope, they will be forgiving to the person in front of them in her medical boot, but also be grateful for all the injured folks they’ve loved over the years and for the One who still heals and binds up and restores every possible injury the world offers.
God bless us. Every one.
“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.
“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”