On footing.
1 | ON FOOTING
Two weeks ago, I slammed my foot into a wall and turned my right pinky toe to a plump, pulsing grape. The bruise spread a hot blue stain across the top of my foot. Everything swelled.
After a day (a singular day) of reclined rest, I thought I was better, or I wanted to think I was better — that it wasn’t a fracture, just a strain. So I tried to do Normal Person Things, like drop my car off for its regular maintenance and go grocery shopping. By the end of the errands, I could hardly stand, and a few hours later, I was collapsed in bed with a fever that lasted for hours, responsive to neither Advil and Tylenol. I had overdone it, thinking I was just…doing it.
Stuff like this keeps happening, I said to some friends last Wednesday, when I was surrendered to a horizontal position on the couch. I can’t remember the last time a wrench wasn’t thrown into the works of my supposed routines. I keep thinking I’ve found my footing, and then my Instagram gets hacked, or my insulin pump poops out when I’m a 45-minute drive from home, or I break my damn pinky toe just by stubbing it.
Found your footing!, my friend exclaimed. You just said found your footing!