War Wound

By morning, I will have a splendid purple bruise on my left ankle.

G. told me I can call it a War Wound, and so I shall. It's not the first, and won't be the last.

What happened?

There's a step-up exercise G. often has me do. I put one foot on a small step and step up, raising the opposite foot so that my knee comes up in front of me. I did 5 on my left foot, and then G. handed me a 25-pound weight. That was a first. I completed five more reps, then switched to my right foot.

I don't know how many I'd done when all of a sudden, the step slipped beneath my foot and I went flying backwards. I landed on my butt, my hands hitting first. In particular, the heel of my right hand, which still aches a little. As I came down, I dropped the weight, and it ricocheted off my left ankle.

G. nearly had a heart attack. As I quickly clambered off the ground he started firing questions at me. "Did you hurt your wrist? Can you walk? Is your tailbone hurting? Oh my God, Megan, are you okay?!"

"Just embarassed!"

He chuckled at that and said, "Believe me, I've seen a lot worse. People fall all the time here." Still, he made me walk around and test everything out. I told him I've broken four bones in my life and I can already tell that nothing is broken in this case.

Now that I'm home, and have iced it, it's hurting. Maybe I'll take a picture of it later.