So Sunday we were running errands before Scott's grandpa's birthday party in the 'burbs.

While part of our mutual agreement with each other is that we'll never, ever move to the suburbs, we do enjoy the convenience of shopping the burbs. It isn't that we don't have stores like Bed, Bath & Beyond (duh), it's just that the drive or walk between it and, say, Target, is ginormous. You work in Saturday afternoon traffic, and it's disaster.

Target was our last stop, needing to pick up odds and ends for the house. This time it was a new rug for my kitchen. Scott went off to grab a birthday card and I went towards the area rugs. I spotted one I liked on a high shelf, and scooted it towards me to get a better read on the size.

No sooner had I done this did a heavy, cardboard pole come swooping out from the middle of the rug - it was rolled up on the shelf, the pole was inside - and landed with a hard thud on the top of my foot, on that soft, delicate spot.

"JESUS CHRIST."

The first thought in my head, right after church, no less, and my next thought was total embarrassment for yelling that out AND in a Target, where no doubt there was a child nearby. Someone heard me, and asked me if I needed help. I was frantically trying to get a hold of Scott, who wasn't picking up his phone, because while it certainly hurt, I was more concerned with the fact that I was completely unable to stand and a crowd of Target workers began to gather around me.

Five minutes later, Scott came running up the aisle to find me sitting in a chair, Target team around me, with a bag of ice on my foot. One incident report later, we left Target for the birthday party.

"On the bright side," said my loving boyfriend as I hobbled out of Target, "You're going to fit right in with all of those old ladies at the nursing home today!"

I spent the rest of the day on my butt, foot elevated. Scott took excellent care of me, buying me ice wraps and Advil, getting me food and just generally making it so I wasn't doing anything but resting my foot. We battled it out a bit because I am not good at being helpless, but eventually I gave up the ghost. It helped that Uncle Bob (Scott's uncle on his dad's side) kept bringing me fresh glasses of red wine all day because, as he mentioned, I was injured and needed it.

It's much better than it was on Sunday, but it's still very sore and bruised. I've promised Scott that I won't run or lift or anything until it's stopped hurting. I mean, walking to the brown line from my office, which is about a half-mile away, makes it sore right now. I think it'll heal just fine - no lawsuits for me, though I have been in communication with the corporate offices at Target - but it's putting an awful cramp on things for me. I'd just bought a new helmet and bike rack on Saturday. I'm itching to get back out on the road. Especially since last week I'd stayed off my feet because of my IT band.

This is all just stupendously unfair. It's spring! I want to be outside running!

I'm hoping to be back out there by Saturday.

In other news, all of my summer clothes fit. Every last one of them. All of those new clothes I bought last year fit just fine. I cannot tell you how nice that was to learn last weekend when I was switching out clothes. I think it's just my jeans that make me feel the slight weight gain - jeans are not always the most forgiving of clothing items, after all.

Cargo pants don't mind five extra pounds, quite obviously.

Posted by Erin at 07:58 AM | filed under: Ouch