So, my ankle is still jacked.
“Blue, and purple, and swollen, and won’t know until tomorrow if it’s broken, and can’t walk on it for at least a week” jacked.
I’m kinda depressed about it.
Crutches suck. Throbbing pain that I secretly think everybody secretly thinks I’m faking, sucks. Climbing into the shower while gingerly resting my knee on the bathtub and then praying I can accurately grab the wash cloth rack at the exact right moment, sucks. Asking for help for every little thing (including, but not limited to: ice packs, trips to the printer and glasses of water), sucks.
Trying to work up the nerve to ask someone to put gas in my car because all I have is cash and the idea of crutching into a gas station to pre-pay in this weather, sucks. Driving with my left foot sucks. And feeling myself getting frustrated that more people aren’t offering to get me an ice pack, sucks.
But most of all.
Hearing the doctor say I won’t be able to workout for at least six weeks sucks.
Today, when my jazzercise instructor e-mailed to say that she hopes to see me back in class in February I started tearing up. At work. (Sorry co-worker who sits behind me) (Amber).
I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster with this whole weight loss thing. I’m at a number I haven’t seen since high school. A number I never thought I’d see again. A number that I’m almost (almost) comfortable telling the lady at the DMV about without first subtracting 5.
I finally found a rhythm. I finally started to understand my body and then control it. I finally started to win the epic war of “crystal vs. fat.”
Now I’m stuck behind enemy lines.
And there’s this very real voice telling my battered spirit – “You’re going to gain back all 41 pounds while your ankle heals.”
The doctor suggested I do sit ups. Umm, have you ever in your whole life ever met anyone who lost weight on sit ups alone? No. Because if that were a real thing, everyone would just do five in the morning before they brush their teeth.
Other say, “Just don’t eat very much and you’ll be fine.” Those people don’t know my secret – I already don’t eat very much. When all you have is a one meal a day and a snack, there’s not a lot of room for cuts. (Don’t judge me. You don’t lose 41 pounds eating).
I thought I’d be crutch free by now. I thought I’d be back on the jazzercise floor 10 days post injury. I thought I’d still be able to lose eight pounds in December.
I’m not. I won’t. I can’t.
And I’m pretty depressed about it.
