So there I was running my merry way down Lyon Street, rocking out to my tunes on my iPod, keeping the fastest pace I have managed in a week of timing my runs, on a beautiful Friday afternoon when BLAU! KABLOOEY!! SMASH! CRASH!! And pain, oh the fucking pain. I screamed, I screeched. I fell. I writhed. I rolled on the ground. I had fallen - for some reason unbeknownst to me at the time - and my ankle had given way, rolled, twisted, tweaked and - yep - sprained.

My run was obviously over. As I writhed upon the sidewalk, I looked back from whence I’d come, and spotted the cause of my current wretched state: in the middle of the street, two trangular curbs sprouting from the asphalt. Clearly, I had inadavertently and unknowingly stepped on one and consequently rolled my ankle. Damn it hurt.

I took my shoe off. I stopped screaming. I hoped that the pain would subside. A minute later a woman pulled up in an SUV and asked if I was ok. Eventually, she offered me ice. Another neighbor who had heard my yelps asked if I was alright and offered me a ride home. I accepted. When the ice arrived, I took a look at my ankle and could see clearly that there was a large bubble where my ankle bone used to be. I iced it. I got a ride home. I walked up the stairs to my apartment, in great pain.

And now I sit here, foot elevated, packed in ice, my ankle too painful to walk upon. And my fitness regiment, which I have been sticking to quite well for a few weeks now, is likely thrown asunder. The irony of all of this? At the time I hit the the curb, so to speak, I was listening to a lyric that goes ‘..monkey wrench in the program’. Appropriate, no?