My Left Foot

We're back from Cincinnati, and I'd like to say none the worse for wear, but I can't.

Turns out that a 30-something white woman should not try to do a dance called the two-step (and not the country two-step, which M and I used to do in college, albeit poorly and typically under the influence of alcohol). This two-step looks like it's something straight out of MC Hammer's playbook, or maybe Vanilla Ice. It looks awesome when done properly.

It does not look good the way I did it. Or rather, tried to do it.

I was dancing and then suddenly...I wasn't.

Perhaps it was because I was trying to do it to Cotton Eyed Joe. Perhaps it was because I wasn't wearing shoes. Perhaps it was because I was dancing on a tarp-covered gym floor. Perhaps it was the coupla beers I had before/with dinner. Perhaps it's because I'm no longer young and flexible. Probably more of that last one than the rest, but most likely a combination of all of the above.

Regardless of the cause, the end result was a left foot that rolled when it wasn't supposed to, sending the rest of my body crashing to the floor. Thanks to M and Aunt Shelley, we got ice on it almost immediately and elevated it promptly. I was reduced to chair dancing for the next thirty minutes, then had to be helped out to the car.

My feelings of embarassment are somewhat ameliorated by the knowledge that Cousin Clare, who is considerably younger than I, jacked up her knee trying to do the very same dance. Her exit was much more dramatic; she was taken by ambulance to the hospital. She arrived at brunch the next morning on crutches, whereas I'm able to at least hobble around on my own.

We've now banned the two-step from all family functions.

The rest of the weekend was jam-packed with lots of fun and included tons of family time, two trips to West Elm to pick out our new dining room table, chairs and buffet, and a meal at Skyline. I cannot visit Cinci without a trip to Skyline.

Much of the trip home yesterday was spent with my foot propped up on the dash, and by last night the top of my foot had started turning a light blue color. I'm pretty sure it's going to go through a rainbow of bruises before it's all said and done, and I'm already tired of popping Advil and gimping around slowly, but I figure it could be worse. M and I are debating whether I should visit a doc-in-the-box just to have it checked out.

I may go, just to get some peace of mind that there's no permanent damage done.

This development is a major bummer in that I simply have far too much to do this month to be felled by injury, not to mention the whole raising-a-child thing.

Ah, well, at least I'm at work now with the offending foot comfortably propped on the top of my Dell. It's the perfect height, which I'm sure they planned for when designing this particular desktop (or, rather, floortop) computer.

So, if you see me gimping around, you'll know what the cause is. I'm working on a better excuse (climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro? hiking through the Adirondacks? saving a small child/elderly person/kitten from a fire?) than "I was slightly inebriated and trying to dance hiphop at a wedding Saturday night." Suggestions are welcome and appreciated.