the diagnosis

So the last time I blogged, I was stuck in my apartment, slowly losing my mind and potentially on the verge of unleashing an epidemic on the state of Washington.

The good news: The test results for whooping cough were negative, and I have since been allowed to return to the public sphere.

Recent adventures in the great outdoors included my first Sounders match:

(Real football is so much better than 'Merican football, largely because I'm a huge fan of watching hot guys with amazing butts sprint for 90 minutes. Also, since everyone in Seattle is nutso for sports, you run into all of your friends at games. Hi, Belle!)

There was also Halloween:

(Gee, I bet you can't guess which pumpkin is mine.)

(Bastet. Because cats. Duh.)

And now I am in the New Jersey/New York area for a combo of business and pleasure.

(My first Big Gay Ice Cream experience. That popsicle was four flavor layers of yum.)

(I really enjoy meeting cats on my travels. In case you haven't noticed.)

However, just as a glazed doughnut cannot exist without being draped with a square of Velveeta cheese that has been melted in the microwave for exactly 20 seconds (shut up, that shit is good and I will not eat glazed doughnuts any other way), so too does good news need bad.

In other words: I have a stress fracture.

I had my bone scan on Halloween (insert some kind of skeleton joke here) and pretty much knew things weren't going to go well when I found myself in an elevator, descending to the bowels of the hospital with a man sprouting devil horns.

And when I saw this ...

... my worst fear (besides being randomly vomited on by a total stranger in a public place, of course) became reality. That big white dot in the center of my left foot? That's a fractured cuboid (a.k.a. the craptacular bone that has plagued me for years).

I can't say I was surprised -- I'd been bracing myself for the worst. But I still teared up a little and posted sad panda declarations of self-pity on Facebook and Twitter. (Especially rough today because of the NYC Marathon. Dear universe: Thanks for surrounding me with 45,000 runners. You've got a great sense of humor. Bitch.)

I'm supposed to talk to my doctor tomorrow about options. It seems he wants to put me in a boot and keep me on crutches (confession: I ditched these awhile ago because it took me 30 minutes to go one block and they made my body so sore and crooked that I thought they were more trouble than they were worth), but I have so many questions about muscle atrophy and overcompensation and alignment. I want to know all avenues and potential consequences before I commit to a method of treatment.

Also: I'd like to know if the boot comes in leopard print.