Another One Bites the Dust

Last year, I broke my foot. Up to that point, I'd been running quite a lot and was hoping to gear up for a marathon later that year. How it broke is interesting only for its sheer banality. I'd much prefer to lie and make up an adventurous story- but no, it was outside my apartment building and I stepped off the sidewalk. That’s it. Just stepped right off, and managed to crumple my foot up under itself so badly as to mangle it broken. A prize should really be awarded for achievements of clumsiness at such advanced levels. Do not let the talk of running fool you; my athletic prowess, even at the height of physical fitness, is somewhere on par with an asthmatic, lumbering bovine. Most of my life seems to have instead been spent training for a spot on the Graceless Dorkwad Olympic team. Beijing 2008!

Ever since the foot-break, its been tough to get back into jogging outside, on the real pavement, in the real air. Instead, I’ve morphed into a full-fledged gym rat, and now much prefer the cozy elliptical, with its personal t.v. screen and satellite cable. More channels than I have in my own home! I get a doctor-recommended amount of exercise per week, but am completely out of whatever running-shape I may have once been in, whatever a pittance it was.

In an on-going effort to stream-line myself before succumbing to an all-white gown (in public! with photos!) next fall, I decided it was high time to mix up my routine and get back into running, and also to enjoy the spectacular weather while it lasts (because this is New England, and it won’t). I was so proud of myself after I’d made it halfway around Fresh Pond lake only a little winded, a spring in my step, a renewed desire to run, run like the wind, beating through my heart.

That was all up until my foot caught a root in the path and I took a dive face-first into the ground, one side of my head crashing into the base of a tree. Sunglasses shattered into pieces. Dirt in my mouth. Other joggers had to rush over and be sure I was still conscious. And I was. But I was also bleeding, and seeing stars with a distinct ringing in my ears. I might have been more embarrassed except that this kind of things happens to me all the time. If I had a nickel for every time I have bit it head-first in public, well, I probably wouldn’t have gone to law school. Or at least, might not still be paying for it in 20 years.

Since I was mostly fine, bloody knees, destroyed sun-glasses and wounded running-ego aside, there was nothing to do except thank those who came to my aid and continue the last length of the lake at a slow, wobbley hobble. Turned out later, when I caught myself in the mirror that I also wound up with a wicked shiner on my right eye. The Fiance is a little worried about how this looks, and how much worse its going to sound when I try to tell people how I “ran into a tree”. He’s not confidant social services is going to buy that I really am that spastic.

So the next time you see me with, say, an arm in a sling or third-degree burns on multiple appendages, I’ll go ahead and disappoint you now: there likely is no incredible, death-defying story to tell. It’s just that I happened to be brushing my teeth. Or breathing air.