Last night, B and I met up with some friends who drove in from Augusta for the night. We went to Pearlz, a local bar famous for their oyster shooters (and yes, I've had one. And yes, I thought they were pretty tasty.) On our way to grab pizza afterwards (because that's what you do here, apparently) I decided that I could give B's 140-lb. friend a piggyback ride . . . in my 3.5 inch heels . . . on a cobblestone street. I mean, why not? That's a completely legit thing to do, right?
No. Wrong. I took one step, and yeah. You know the rest. I totally twisted my ankle. It's swollen and purple-y, and I feel like such an idiot. Now, nearly 12 hours later, I'm stuck in bed following the RICE principle in hopes of a speedy recovery.
My recovery has to be speedy. They're no ifs, ands or buts about it. I've got to teach a dance camp next week, which means my ankle needs to be fully healed in about eight days. Think my hopes are too high?