My Busted Foot, part II

Henrietta strikes a pose.
Originally uploaded by littlee.

Yeah, so Glass Half Full has totally kicked Glass Half Empty’s butt. It’s been a little ugly, actually, as excessive post-victory gloating can be so unseemly.

First, there was the unanticipated outpouring of sympathy and offers of transportation help from my fellow science monkeys on The Section. (There was a rather awkward spell when I had to disabuse many of the rumor that I’d broken my leg. Some seem a little disappointed at the lack of carnage, but quickly regained their composure and began to coo and cluck at my slightly bruised looking foot.)

Then came the realization that I really really like yoga. Like really like it. A lot. While it is not nearly the cardio blowout of my beloved runs up East Rock and in many ways is, as Sophia calls it, “supervised napping,” I have come to appreciate whole new muscle groups thanks to poses such as the mysteriously termed “pigeon pose.” Smashed pigeon, maybe. Pigeon that has flown beak first into a window, perhaps.

Other poses, like “child’s pose” or “warrior II”, make sense and I am able to calmly and meditatively stand or stretch into them with my mind on quiet breathing. However, when Heidi says we’re going into ‘pigeon,’ I must stifle a laugh-snort and my mind inevitably wanders from my breathing off to the various scenarios leading to a pigeon ever having its legs and wings in this particular configuration. Lower Eastside punk rocker pigeon? Over-heated Piazza San Marco pigeon?

On a less meditative, more retail therapeutic note, my slightly busted foot has also provided a solid rationale for the purchase of some very green, entirely fabulous new sandals. Having mothballed my surprisingly large flip flop collection due to bad ergonomics, I found myself shuffling about in the same sneakers every day. Sneakers in summer are a bad idea. And given my hatred of socks (and sneakers without socks in summer is downright WRONG) this new pair of pea-green beauties are the coolest thing happening.

But the third thing, the REAL news, is the BIKE. She’s a metallic blue Raleigh – not dark blue or light blue just sort of a mellow medium-ish blue. She’s a ten speed with old school shifters that take some gentle prodding, no easy ‘click’ here. Her rear break squawks like a startled goose, and the left pedal down stroke makes a shrill squeak with each revolution. Her seat is pretty much rusted into place, too bad it’s about two inches too low. I’ve only had her for a week and I LOVE her.

We go careening around New Haven together, taking on potholes and snow plow-crumpled sidewalks with gleeful abandon. And I have learned new things. I have learned that New Haven is positively teeming with bike racks. Everywhere I look I now see nifty metal bendy things for locking up. I never noticed these before – my pedestrian’s eyes unable to detect them amidst all the other poles, fences and mysterious ticking stoplight boxes that crowd the concrete jungle of downtown New Haven. I have learned that the only commuters who score higher on the “Out to Lunch-o-meter” than Connecticut drivers are Connecticut pedestrians. So I wear a helmet. I have also learned that bike chain grease is right up there on the top of the Impossible To Remove Stain List but that I am still not quite willing to wear one of those Velcro strap y things to protect the cuffs of my pants.

I have decided to name her Henrietta. This is in keeping with my ridiculous habit of naming all things that either transport or entertain me on my way to school: Isabelle the iPod, Izzy the iShuffle, Etta the Jetta. I think she likes her new name, as well as her new role as my trusty steed, especially after years of sitting in my friend’s garage having to stare enviously at The New Bike. When Carol dropped Henrietta off at my apartment last week, she didn’t really say whether the bike was mine to keep or a long term loan. She did say that this was a bike she’d had since 7th grade – so I’m assuming that I’m not the only one with strong sentimental attachments and I may eventually have to send Henrietta back to Carol’s garage. Sad.

At least for the next couple of months though Henrietta and I will squawk and squeak blissfully around town. Hopefully my foot will be shipshape by the time Glass Half Empty, a.k.a. New England winter, comes and covers the city in a layer of grimy ice and I have to hide put Henrietta away for her winter hibernation. Which reminds me, I still haven’t thought up a names for my ice gripper shoes that get me back and forth throughout the arctic freeze. Hans and Franz maybe?

To whine or not to whine...

Tough times at Lago de Jorge.
Originally uploaded by littlee.

On a hot, still Saturday afternoon, Eva sat in the shade of her second story porch. The picture of repose, she leaned back in her chair with her feet up on the porch ledge, propping her latest summer book against her knees with ice water and cookies were nearby. If one watched for a little while though, one could see that all was not well. While her face appeared focused, her eyes fixed on the pages in front of her, the pages went unturned and the look of concentration showed hints of distracted brooding.

Standing a little closer, one could easily hear the battle playing out at full volume inside her head, the bickering voices of Glass Half Empty and Glass Half Full were at it again…

Glass Half Empty (G.H.E.): “Waaaaaaaaaa! There’s a bump on my foot and Dr. Whathisname thinks it’s a stress fracture but they can’t see any thing on the x-ray and I can’t go running and sometimes it hurts to walk and…”

Glass Half Full (G.H.F.):“Stop your yammering. Even if you do have a stress fracture, you probably got it after that lovely 10 mile run you went on with Sadie around the northern tip of Lake George two weeks ago…”

G.H.E.: “But I want to go RUNning noooow...”

G.H.F.: “In other words, you got a little bit hurt while trying to be ridiculously sporty in an uber-scenic setting. What’s the worst thing that can come of it? You might have to go the gym for a few weeks and do the stationary bike instead of joining your running peeps on the trails.”

G.H.E.: “But they closed the gym next week so I can’t even do that. And the only shoes that don’t hurt to wear are those rather colorful Birkenstocks that, though super cool and fashion forward as Birkenstocks go, don’t really ‘go’ with a whole lot of stuff. And besides, why ME?”

G.H.F.: “Why NOT you? You charge all over the place like a crazy person. You walk miles a day on hard cement sidewalks wearing your trendy little flip flops. It’s a miracle you haven’t broken a toe yet on one of New Haven’s classic mid-crosswalk potholes. So pipe down and just read your book. Listen. The cicadas are going bananas!”

G.H.E.: “BUT I WANT TO GO RUNNING! And as an essential member of Team Wombat, I want to be ready to tear up the 5K of the mini-triathlon we’re doing next month.”

G.H.F.: “Oh chill out. Look at the bright side. You’re being forced to diversify your workout routine – what else would get you to discover the joys of yoga or to rediscover the myriad benefits of a 30 minute piece on a rowing machine.”

G.H.E.: “But…”

G.H.F.: “No, seriously. Stop your kvetching for a minute and look at how much fun you’ve been having this summer. You went to Lake George with Sadie, where you were doted on endlessly by her parents. Which did you like better? The moon-lit midnight boat ride around the lake, the two hour trip in Patrick’s four-seater plane all over the Adirondacks and then over the Middlebury, or being woken on Sunday morning by the smell of Anna’s freshly-baked blue berry muffins? You know, the muffins she made with blue berries she picked THAT MORNING. C’mon, tell me some more about how your life sucks.”

G.H.E.” But I’ve been training for so long and after a month of sitting around, I probably won’t even be able to run a mile without passing out on the sidewalk…”

G.H.F. “Oh. My. God. Would you listen to yourself? What about last Thursday, when Shira invited you to the Cutter’s game? What’s better than a semi-pro baseball game where the entertainment between innings and the home-style BBQ pit concession stands are more of a draw than the game itself? And lest ye forget, it was Thirsty Thursday. Can you beat dollar beers? No. You cannot.”

G.H.E.: “Whatever. We’ll see how perky you are on Monday when you have to figure out how to get to school without walking or riding the bus shuttle that takes 45 minutes to travel the 1.2 mile route across town. And don’t try driving yourself like you did last week. You thought if you left by 7:30 a.m. you’d be able to find a spot, but you forgot about stupid street sweeping, didn’t you? Spent a half hour looking and practically drove all the way back home before you finally parked, didn’t ya!”

G.H.F.: “True. That was lame. There was some swearing. But you won’t convince me that this whole foot thing is more than a little bump in the road. So I won’t be able to run in the New Haven Road Race on Labor Day. There will be other half marathons. And even though the foot is a little cranky now, it’s probably only because of that whole day of walking and standing at Six Flags New England this past Wednesday. May I remind you, Eeor, that more than half of Roy Lab play hooky for the entirety of Wednesday to go to an amusement park and scream like 12 year olds on a bunch of roller coasters?”

G. H.E.: “Okay, Little Miss Sunshine. You keep looking through those rose-tinted glasses. You have a great time at your bone scan at the health plan on Monday, let me know what they say.”

Monday afternoon arrived and Eva was back on the porch, slumped in her chair and looking as though she had slowed to about 25 mph on her drive back from the health plan and given Glass Half Full a boot out of the car door.

“Broken,” Dr. Dailinger had said. “A stress fracture. And actually, it probably isn’t done breaking yet. Probably by next week it will stop and we’ll take some x-rays.”

Six weeks until it stopped really hurting. Ten to 14 weeks till it was a lot better. Fully repaired in a year. Stress fractures are like that, he’d said.

Lame, is all Eva could think, sitting on the porch listening to the cicadas sing their ode to summer. Lame in the physical sense, lame in the slang sense. Just plain lame. Right about then, Glass Half Full came limping around the corner, a little roughed up from her tumble.

“You know,” said Glass Half Full. “You’d better stop brooding and get back to lab. You’ve got sexy data to analyze and you told Sunny and Christina you’d go to Café Bodega with them for gelato this afternoon. Oh and you’ve got yoga at 7 – don’t forget your mat. You’d better get crackin.’”