It would seem I am determined to kill myself. Not all at once, mind you, but slowly, in increments.
It started two weeks ago when Daylight Savings Time ended and we were plunged into darkness at 5pm. As a dog walker who gets home at 6pm, I hate walking Olivia in the dark because I have extremely poor night vision. When the sun sets, the world around me morphs into ambiguous shades of black and gray. Is that a shrub or a trash can? A fire hydrant or a child? A motorcycle or a maniac wielding a machete? I usually can't tell until I've practically tripped over it.
And that's what I did a couple weeks ago when a "shadow" turned out to be a curb. I stumbled over it and did what could pretty much be described as a belly flop on the pavement. I landed so hard that people halfway down the block heard the impact (or maybe it was the F-bomb I dropped). In spite of my potty mouth they came running to help me. I just laid on the ground as Olivia hovered over me, probably wondering why her human was strewn across the sidewalk. I was shell-shocked, afraid to move for fear I'd discover something broken or cracked. My right palm had two gaping bloody wounds and my left knee was bruised and swollen, but I was lucky: incredibly, nothing was broken.
So no sooner had the swelling gone down and the wounds healed before I did it again. Last Wednesday I was working out, which you'd think would be a good thing, right? Well, think again. In my enthusiasm I incurred a stress fracture (tiny cracks in the bone caused by the repetitive application of force) in my left foot. I'm now hobbling around like the 90-year old woman I thought exercise would help me avoid becoming.
Evenings now find me walking Olivia in a half-blind state, feeling my way through the neighborhood while limping along with my swollen foot encased in one of those medical dork shoes.
Maybe I should just stay in bed. Call me when it's spring.