After my accident three months ago, my activity level has been about as painstakingly slow as growing out my bangs. I honestly thought that once I could be weight baring on my left leg again, I would be back to normal. I had this image in my head of tossing my walker off to the side and slipping on a pair of 4 inch wedge sandals.
Yeah, not exactly.
My shoe selection has mainly been relegated to flats, which are not my first choice. There's only so much flair and fashion you can add to a non-existent heel. I look at websites like Zappos and ShoeDazzle and longingly gaze at platform heels, cork wedges and leather flowered sandals like a crack head looks at a pipe.
I have a board on Pinterest that I've named "Foot Porn." I don't think I'll be able to wear most of those shoes for a very long time, but it still gives me a rush to look at them.
And in addition to my recent orthotic choice in foot wear, I feel like I spend so much mental energy every time I start walking, or get up from a seated position.
It's like a mental flow chart in my head whenever I'm going to step out of the shower:
Is the floor wet outside the shower?
If no, continue to carefully step out.
If yes, assess possible scope of damage, grab the towel bar and curse silently.
One of the activities I really wanted to start again was riding my bike. I felt that was a good cardio option without putting too much pressure on my leg. So tonight my dad got all our bikes ready. He checked the tire pressure and found every one's helmets.
"This will be so great!" I told the kids excitedly. "I used to ride all the time when I was a kid." They rolled their eyes and asked how long we were going.
What's the saying? "...it's just like riding a bike..."
Well, there's nothing like dislocating and fracturing your hip to make you question absolutely everything that deals with maintaining your balance and an upright position. I wobbled down the driveway, like a 5 year old without her training wheels for the first time. I don't think I completely exhaled for the first half mile.
Once I realized I wasn't going to face plant into a ditch, I started to enjoy the ride.
My daughters, however, weren't relishing in the miracle of their mother on two wheels.
"This hurts my crotch!"
"My crotch hurts, too. How many more miles?"
"Now my butt hurts."
Good grief. I looked at my 7 year old son, waiting to hear his complaint. He shrugged. "My balls don't hurt at all."
Well, that's good. We continued on our way home. After a few miles, my thighs began to hurt. I kept telling myself it was a good hurt and it meant the muscles were working again.
As we finished our ride, my son announced, "I'm really proud of you, Mom. I'm proud you didn't fall and break your other hip."
He looked at me and smiled, then high-fived me.
Oh, thanks...you sweet talker you.
After I did the shaky dismount in our driveway, I felt a stirring of hope. A hope that things may someday be more normal in terms of my activity levels. A hope that I can eventually hop on a bike and go for a ride without wincing every time I go up a hill. A hope that my kids will want to bike with me too, and not complain the entire time.
And dare I say...a hope that some day I will be able to slide into a pair of heels that sparkle and shine.
A girl can dream.
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