Since my recent sprained ankle incident, involving heels very similar to these, a street almost identical to this one and a piggyback ride much less exciting than this cute couple's, I've had quite a bit of time to surf the Internets (and gain a bit of a stomach pudge I'm not too proud of). 

My surfing has revolved around finding a job, any job. I thought we were coming out the economic crisis, no? Since April (well, even way before then), I've been on the hunt and at every turn-down, I've subsequently shouted to the Job Gods, WHY CAN'T I GET ONE?! 

At times, I feel desperate and start thinking I'm qualified for jobs I'm clearly not. Like the one MUSC has for a project manager for their cancer center. I actually almost applied, but my friend, Paula, helped bring me back to reality. Thanks, Boo.

Now it's to the point I'm thinking about retail. So O.K., what cool shops could I work at downtown, (I'm totally staying away from any shop on the ill-fated East Bay Street, the cobblestone mecca of Charleston) even if only part-time? What about a lawyer's office? There are about one billion of them in this city. I'll run your errands, you high-powered attorney! I'll get your coffee and type up any legal documents you throw my way. (And I'm a damn-good typer!) Oh, and could you pay me about 20 bucks an hour? Promise I'll do an exceptional job. 

And then there's the dance studio. Should I open my own? I've got a friend who's so willing to help out with everything. I mean, everything. She has scouted locations, prices, sent me small business owners websites. You name it; she's done it. I should be all over it . . . but I'm not. Truth is, I'm scared. I'm 30, want to get married fairly soon and wouldn't mind having some babies in the next few years. Is it doable? Too risky? 

I tend to get so caught up in the what ifs that I miss many an opportunity to do the things I enjoy. Lord, please don't let my children inherit that cool trait. I've noticed another awesome tendency I have: whenever I get overwhelmed, I shut down. I'm pretty sure that's what I've done with all this studio talk. I admitted it to my friend, and God bless her, she's letting me "heal" and feel better before I commit to anything. I'm just so grateful I have a friend who's so excited about the prospect and cares about me so much already. I mean, I've only known her for about three months. 

Aside from job hunting, I've been shopping. Wait, let me clarify. I haven't bought anything ('cause everybody knows I'm soooo broke) but I've been putting things in my online shopping carts just because it feels so good. I'm loving everything at cb2. Behold my future prizes, all from cb2:


A twisted ankle and wounded ego

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?