December 28… It’s uncharacteristically balmy here in Central Pennsylvania, and the first thing I did this morning was clodhop outside for a breath of just-chilly-enough fresh air. The after-Christmas calm will soon give way to the steady din of football commentary and wild cheering for our last Penn State game of the year, the Cotton Bowl. Win or lose, Hubby will go into football deprivation mourning henceforward (Author’s note: we won!). I’ve already heard him mutter, more than once, that’s it’s “eight more months” till the 2020 college football season kicks off.
Normally, I’d throw together some fun food for the game, but alas… I have been benched. Or nearly so. I have “done something” to my right ankle and am now wearing that decidedly un-elegant footwear. For three weeks. I’m just glad that I acquired this mass of Velcro on December 26 and not before.
I try to laugh off whatever I can. What’s the point, otherwise? I texted my next-door neighbor about my adventure, with the charming photo. She texted back, “Don’t drive. You will die.” I’d already figured that out. LOL indeed.
Getting one’s priorities straight in such situations is critical. Note my first comment after being fitted for the boot, rocking and rolling as I tried to get into the car: “I never did the [mild expletive] ironing.” I’m aware that many people think ironing an archaic waste of time. For me, it’s an almost meditative, decompressing pleasure… a deliciously concrete task that you can complete in a manageable period of time (e.g., the length of a Hallmark Christmas movie*). Everything folds and stacks so beautifully— pillowcases, handkerchiefs, shirts, napkins, tablecloths—and fills the air with that sweet, freshly pressed smell. With the holidays, however, I’d been in triage mode, and the ironing had piled up with the fervor of a happy weed patch. But Hubby–who, it turns out, feels pretty much the same way I do about ironing—stepped right up. Hubby is a prince under any circumstance, but especially when there’s a bump in the road. Or a boot on the foot.
I hobbled into the dining room and found a perfectly arranged assortment of perfectly pressed napkins and placemats.
I hate not being self-sufficient. I am extraordinarily, stubbornly independent, per my testa dura Calabrian heritage. Ask Hubby. If you’ve been lucky enough to avoid even a temporary incapacity (and God bless you—I hope your good fortune continues), a day in a boot will open your eyes. Personally, I’m working on humility, grace, gratitude, and, most of all, good humor.
Meanwhile, two days down, and counting.
*A Hallmark Christmas movie is perfect because you don’t have to give it much attention—you’ve already seen 15 variations on the plot and you can predict the ending with 100% accuracy. See one of my first blog posts for further commentary on the Hallmark holiday phenom, or the sequel to that post. Or perhaps one of our black-and-white favorites to get you through that ironing pile?