This morning on our walk, I was paying more attention to what I was saying to what was in the road. Past the first half of our walk, going down a fairly long steep asphalted hill, I stepped on a rock with my left foot. Hit it just right. I was down before I knew what had happened. Boy, that ankle popped.
I stood up, Brian supported me. We’re probably a half mile from home. I was able to put weight on my foot and I started walking. I scraped up my hands a little and I put no holes in my sweatpants. There was a lady we see on the mornings we walk this route and she came over and asked if we needed help, she had a car and could take us (she saw me go down, how embarrassing). We thanked her and told her I’d be alright, I mentioned this was an occasional reoccurance of a high school injury (yeah, stepping on rocks, blame it on youth).
I made it home okay, but as the day’s progressed, that puppy is hurting. I iced it down a little. And my upper arms aren’t real happy right now either, bad way to start a regimen of push ups, yanno? The palm of my left hand hurts, too.
Ah, the joys of not watching where you walk. Of course, I get no sympathy from my DH.