I've Got an Owie

While I have the deepest sympathy for the young and totally hot crazedparent, what I want to know is why, when I go to the doctor, I am never, ever, told (no matter how much I beg) that the best treatment is get lots of rest and by all means, no exercise. On the other hand, now that I'm older, it seems when I do go at least I'm no longer told, "not sure what's wrong, not much we can do, it's probably stress." I used to think my husband was the only person who would go see the doc with a minor complaint and they find something major requiring a short hospital stay or oodles of medication.

I recently (well, after waiting several weeks for an appointment and then missing that one, doh) went to the foot doctor for my poor achy feet, although they mostly only hurt when I'm walking down the stairs in the morning. I swear my wierd imagination was afraid I'd left a piece of glass or splinter in my heel, and it was festering. The pain was not that bad, but I'm all for feeling my best at all times, got enough other stuff to deal with.

So alas I've been diagnosed with plantar fascitis - I declined the cortisone shot, but geez now that I have this official diagnosis my foot is suddenly killing me. I could barely hobble around for a donut and gossip at work today. Except guess when? You got it, when I'm running. I was really hoping to add that to my list of excuses to skip bootcamp. My legs may shake, arms burn and I can barely breathe, but my feet feel OK. Life is so unfair! Okay, it's not really, I'm just a whiner.

I'm currently fighting my dog for the old tennis ball my husband fished out of his car for one of my treatments while watching the office and addressing birthday invitations, what a glamorous life I lead.

Goal for the week: don't let the kids or the dogs break my night splint. I can't believe they have three pages of these on ebay.