I'm icing my knee. Weeks after falling through rotting stairs (not a scratch or bruised on me), suddenly my knee is swollen with gelatinous fluids. I've still walked four miles a day and moved about normally, but by the end of the day, the grapefruit returns. Yes, mom...I know I should have it looked at. And no, mom. I don't see any breaks in my schedule to make time for this in the immediate future.
I diagnosed myself with a chipped patella years ago, and used to gross students out by showing them how I could move the chip around the knee. It never swelled up, although the only time it didn't hurt was when I was running.
I also borrowed this great ice pack from Pam, because she's had ever leg injury known to humankind. I believe she has stock in ice packs. This one I love, though, because it wraps around and tightens to make sure of maximum ice impact.
I knew after grant meetings today I was going to grocery shop at Trader Joe's, walk the dog, cook, then record an episode of The Write Time (can't wait! woot Woot! SONYA HUBER). In my head, though, I was thinking most about my nightly ice ritual and the smile it brings to my face.
I wake up in the morning and it is usually normal. I'm told I should go in so they can stick a straw in it and slurp out the liquids like a Slurpee. As fun as that sounds, I'd rather keep to the ice for now.
TGIF, y'all. Time for all the other projects.