Trapped

Trapped in my house by a cinderblock boot, I am slowly going batshit crazy.

Does batshit have a hyphen? she wonders for too long.

Going out is a pain. I can tell you every trip I've taken outside the house since I got this air cast last Monday.

On Tuesday, I drove my car to a lot by the PATH train. I hobbled down the stairs (how do mobility-challenged people get around?) to the platform, no one offered me a seat, and at 23rd Street, I hobbled down, up, over, up, and the three blocks to SVA to teach my class. My students were sympathetic. Several of them had done what I did, which is overdo it after stressing foot bones. I fractured the fourth and fifth metatarsals.

My trips out after that were mostly to move my car or get the mail. One night, I walked across the street to the Italian restaurant with my neighbor Denise. I'm still off sugar, which means no pasta, but I had a delicious steak.

On Friday, I ran some errands in my car. Post office, car wash, gas, laundry, supermarket. But I overdid it, and had to rest all Saturday.

And by rest, I mean sit at my computer and work on various projects. Editing Larry's Captain America book. Lining up interviews for the Spider-Man movie book. Endlessly fiddling with the manuscript on the book I'm rush-packaging.

It's not the worst time to be stuck inside.

But it's driving me nuts.