For 3,628,800 seconds – that is six weeks in case you didn’t know – I have lollygagged around waiting for my foot to heal. Similar to watching paint dry, but without the buzz of the fumes. I’m bored. And when I am properly bored, I think about odd things. Like, this situation I am in is not sexy. It is not remotely attractive that I wear a plastic shower covering for my leg that resembles a condom. It is not sexy that I have crutches and a scooter proudly displayed in our living room that is glaringly similar to a nursing home aesthetic. They mock me. It’s a bullying situation where they taunt me simply because I am so dependent on them.
Thursday I am being released from my cast prison to the care of my walking boot. Upon being unearthed from the plaster, my leg will require a weed whacker and moisturizer. The image from my leg may prompt my doctor to start a random conversation about the novelty of a Chia pet. Happy to be a reminder of a hairy holiday gift.
Rehab will be the next step in the process. For me, it’s like Norm on Cheers when I walk into their PT office. Since I am structural slighted, I have used this facility A LOT, so it is only natural that my 8×10 photo is hanging on the wall. Kidding. It’s not, but I feel like that should be something that happens. Maybe I will suggest it.
I am aware that after 3,628,800 seconds of care giving the natives are getting restless. Truthfully, I am getting annoyed by myself, so I can only imagine how done my spouse is. Yesterday, he heavily sighed when I asked for a glass of water. It wasn’t just a soft sigh, but one laced in aggression. Same, Brian, same.
Sitting here and staring at my home, I realized that the maid should be fired and we need to do some major home improvements like painting and redoing the floors. The maid has been hit or miss. To be fair, I am the maid and I hate cleaning. However, when I am relegated to the sofa and have ample time to stare at the filth of my house, it gets me highly motivated to clean. I think I might have hit my bottom.