In September 2021, I broke the fifth metatarsal bone in my right foot. I could have blamed it on a well-waxed floor causing my slip and fall, but I knew the truth. Earlier that evening, I pulled a pair of cute wedge sandals out of the archives. Although they were on the cusp of “vintage,” they seemed in good shape based on a quick assessment of the integrity of the straps. But as my husband and I left Mass that evening, my heel somehow went out from beneath me, knocking my other foot off its bearings like a croquet mallet. I hit the stone floor in the back hallway at Boston’s St. Anthony’s Shrine with a smack. 

Tim extended his hand to pull me to my feet. I shifted, first to my left hip, then my right, but neither approach made bringing myself upright easier or less painful. Once on my feet, I saw stars with every step, but I didn’t think I had broken anything. We had a reservation at Frank’s in Cambridge, and my mind was set on the petite filet with tarragon butter–and a half carafe of wine. I convinced myself it was a sprain. I refused to give in to anything more serious; I had plans.

I hobbled into the restaurant, where they seated us about as far from the entrance as possible. After I ordered the carafe and filet, I propped my foot up on Tim’s side of the booth. The elevation and wine did little to quell the pain. I acquiesced to a visit to urgent care. 

After a visual examination and an x-ray, the nurse pulled back the curtain in my urgent care cubby and announced, “Yep, it’s broken!” She fitted me with a boot, adjusted a set of crutches to accommodate my five-foot stature, and sent me on my way. When we arrived home, Tim opened the trash barrel in our driveway and tossed the cute, strappy sandals in. It was the end of an era–ok, they were old.

I dragged myself and my clunky booted foot around for eight weeks. My forced, sedentary lifestyle helped my writing process, especially since I had enrolled in an MFA program a few weeks earlier. I spent my days at my desk, pumping out essays and assignments. My work-from-home husband delivered lunch and snacks to me. By mid-November, my doctor decided I didn’t need my boot; at the same time, I decided I didn’t need an MFA. I happily divorced myself of both albatrosses.

For the past nineteen months, my bones remained intact, despite the fact I fell off my rental bike on dismount during last year’s Cape Cod vacation. My six-year-old Apple watch bore the brunt of that tumble. I remedied the dangling watch face with a specially designed protective cover for Apple watches (Amazon has everything and delivers, even to rental beach houses). Other than a few scrapes, I was fine, with the exception of my ego.

This year, we decided to bring our own bikes–mine, a fifty-year-old English touring bike, a gift from my father on my Confirmation, and Tim’s, a forty-two-year-old Univega that I purchased for his twenty-fourth birthday. The road at the Cape house lends itself to old people bike riding the same way the cemetery across the street from our house does. It’s flat and easily navigable. 

Last Friday night, I fell down the stairs and broke my big toe on my left foot, all in the cause of my best, healthy, exercise-focused intentions. In anticipation of our week at Cape Cod, I headed to the car with our bike rack in my hands. I missed a step and fell head-first, bouncing a good distance before stopping at the bottom of the run. Somehow, the metal frame broke my fall; without it, my injuries should have been more extensive. Once again, Tim pulled me to standing. I assessed my pain without the benefit of a half carafe or a petite filet before subjecting myself to urgent care, ex-rays, and the inevitable diagnosis, a bone-crushing moment of deja vu as the nurse said, “Yep! It’s broken.” 

I don’t consider myself particularly accident-prone, but when I think about my history of freak accidents, broken noses, torn ulnar collateral ligaments, arm braces, and orthopedic boots, I attest to being a little klutzy. I enjoyed these boot free nineteen months and hate the PTSD triggered by this recent development. The timing couldn’t be more inconvenient.

A beach vacation spent in a boot stifles the vacation warrior in me. Sofa surfing while watching Live with Kelly and Mark replaces early morning walks on the beach. I watch with envy as the other elderly bike riders cruise Phillips Road. I judiciously decide when to mount the dunes to the ocean just steps away; so far, the verdict is ‘don’t bother.’ Instead, I sit at my laptop by the window, writing and staring at the deer, bunnies, and interesting birds that wander into the woodsy backyard outside our picture window. I rest on my laurels of accomplished projects. I’ve written this Mami and worked on some of my student clients’ college planning projects. I force myself to look at the whole episode with a glass-half-full approach and focus on the benefits that come with being immobile. I only wish that glass came with a half-carafe of wine.