I decided to start spring cleaning today. Among many, many other long-postponed tasks, it was time to toss the Cinderella pumpkin we've had since Halloween. It still looked perfect, like an expensive ceramic objet, unchanged since the October day we brought it home. But spring seems to be in full swing: people are wearing shorts and planting flowers. Pumpkins have to go.
I gathered some other last-minute trash, put everything in a bag, and headed to the alley, where the bins were still waiting for pickup. The bag was heavy, so I carried it in my arms.
Walking down our front steps, I missed one or two. I couldn't see where I was going because of the large pumpkin I was carrying. I watched it sail through the air away from me as I became airborne myself. It was one of those moments where everything happens in slow motion. Then I landed, twisting my ankle, and banging my knee. (The pumpkin landed with a memorable thunk; I landed silently, at least, if far from gracefully.)
Two strolling gentlemen witnessed this. They stopped and offered to help me, but I said I was okay. "Sprained ankle?" one asked as he watched me consider my shockingly painful right foot. "Probably," I replied. "I sprained my wrist," he said, smiling and gesturing to his blue cast. It takes a while but it will get better." "Thanks," I said. But no thanks. I need two feet.
I sat for a bit, collected my trash, and limped to the alley. My foot didn't feel too bad but I was clearly not going to be getting my 10,000 steps today or perhaps for some time. Back at home, I hobbled around and did a few more chores, but my foot started protesting. So I began icing it; it retaliated further by swelling around the ankle anyway. It's still feeling worse instead of better. I'm writing this from the sofa, where the chilly foot is elevated on a pile of cushions and wrapped in an Ace bandage. I'm sure nothing's broken and I doubt anything's fractured. If it gets much worse, I'll see my doctor.
Gym-going and spring cleaning will be postponed for awhile longer. I sent my husband to go see the little house in Beacon Hill. When he returns, he will receive instructions to prepare dinner if he wants any. Me, I can only lie here and read my gorgeous, fluffy new book, The World of Downton Abbey and recover. Oh, poor, poor me.