My feet have been exceptionally well-behaved over the past few years, and I’m not really eager to change that any time soon.  Yes, they still get sore – but I’m actually able to walk and I’m rarely in pain to the point of tears after a day of heavy marching. I was able to wander all around London last year, and only needed to take foot breaks on our last full day there. This is a vast, vast improvement from even 5 years ago, when we kept a pair of crutches handy in case I needed them to get from the car to our front door. I know this makes me sound like some kind of broken-down old lady, but my feet were really, really bad.

So, things have been great for a while. I can walk and frolic and dance (when no one is watching). Hooray!

Except .. I think I may have broken my left foot.

It’s really hard for me to walk (heh) that fine line between hypochondria and laissez-faire. If I freaked out at every little twinge or crack or sharp stabbing pain, I’d be at the doctor’s office all the damn time. I know I’m prone to stress fractures, and I know there is Shit Fuck All that can be done about them when they happen. My “doctor” (still just a glorified walk-in clinic doctor who is terrified of my vagina) would go “huh” and send me off for eventual x-rays and MAYBE refer me to foot specialist (hopefully not the one who GAVE UP ON ME because my problem is too complicated) (or the other one who dismissed me, insisting my problem was my non-existent diabeetus); neither of which would do much to solve my immediate issue of “ow ow ow ow ow ow ow”.

And that’s where we are now: I hurt. At first I thought I was just experiencing muscle soreness from prancing around town in bad shoes, but the pain has gotten steadily worse and now I can’t put any weight on my left foot. I’m limping around pitifully, and each step makes me wince and swear and cry. I don’t much care for this at all – but how MUCH do I not care for it? Wait-and-see enough? Two-Advil-and-hope-for-the-best enough? Or actual, serous ER-enough? If I’m being honest, I’d have to admit that it’s kind of really past annoying-hurty and is forging bravely onward to worry-hurty to sell our children’s organs to zoos for meat and go into people’s houses at night to wreck up the place. Is this just an exciting new chapter in pain and suffering? Or should I ignore that inner voice that tells me I shouldn’t bother doctors with my stupid little problems and get myself checked out?

In 60 years or so, I’m going to be the one having the heart attack and asking the Web 5.0 what I should do about it instead of summoning an ambulance with my mind.