The Summer We Got Old

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, posting this late.

“Why are you late, Keri?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you.

I had to do my exercises for my plantar fasciitis first so that when I got out of bed I’d be able to hobble my way to the toilet without hurting my foot further. And then I had to ice the foot.

The foot that has been injured since May. When I blew out the plantar tendon on a treadmill at a conference. Because exercise kills.

Today’s big plans involve getting myself some more Aleve. I love Aleve (and its generic equivalent). I love it now almost as much as I love wine. More, in fact, because wine makes my face flush up red and puffy and I can see every glass of it layering itself on to the back fat lumps even as I sip the glass.

After I’m done here whining about my aches and pains, I’m going to tend to my husband. He scratched his finger gardening last month, and long-story-short: Big old infection. Week in the hospital on antibiotics. Six weeks on a PICC line. Because gardening kills.

Three months ago when I was young, I knew not what a PICC line was. Now I know because I get to hook him up to this semi-permanent portable IV every morning and evening.

While I’m getting my Aleve today, I’ll pick up a boatload of Activia. When you’re on antibiotics for weeks on end, it sets you up for fungal infections. We don’t want any of THAT nastiness in our house, so I’m shoveling the yogurt down the poor man’s throat.

This is what we do for fun now. Eat yogurt and take Aleve and ice our feet and bitch and moan.

I’ve got to get up off this here floor now and tend to my mending.



Gimme a minute!