In December of 2006, I sprained my ankle really badly a week before my family and I were scheduled to leave on a grand tour of Italy.  Chris and I were leaving our third floor apartment on our way to my parents’ for a Chanukah party and I was bringing over approximately 7 months of dirty laundry to do while there, carrying a basket in front and a pack on my back.  I missed a step and landed on the outside of my right ankle with all my weight and the weight of my 7 months of laundry.  I crawled back to the couch, made Chris call me an ambulance, spent hours in the ER, the next week in bed at my parents’ house, and hobbled around Italy alternating between crutches and being pushed by various family members in a wheelchair.  Around the very modern and handicapped-accessible ancient streets of Italy.

Today, as I went for a stroll for some frozen yogurt with a coworker who apparently likes to walk blindly into busy intersections, I tried to step back onto the sidewalk after realizing we were walking against a green light and stepped into a hole in the street.  I feel off my very cute but clearly impractical wedge sandals and twisted my left ankle.  It hurt, but was nowhere near the pain of the first sprain, so I powered on to get the fro-yo and spent the rest of the afternoon with my foot up on a chair at my desk, an ice pack precariously balancing.

It’s not swollen and I now know I will survive to walk normally again one day, but it hurts.  Did I mention I leave in three days to meet my brother for a week in Quito?  A week undoubtedly packed with lots of walking, and possibly even hiking?  Seriously.