Friday night: high-heeled black boots, a couple glasses of red wine, and a narrow spiral staircase. Needless to say, after leaving a lovely little cocktail party (feeling quite stylish and trés social) I did an unplanned acrobatic down several steep, sinuous stairs. My teetering talons were the obvious culprit, though the thick knee-high leather downgraded what would have been a full on right ankle twist to simply an awkward tweak. My ankle felt a bit over-wrenched as I walked home from Place de Victor Hugo, but the lingering glow of wine and good company dulled the tenderness and I assumed all would be fine.
I skipped running on Saturday and enjoyed the morning at the bustling President Wilson market, a few blocks from my apartment. My delicious purchases included a dozen beautiful Loire Valley apples, a paper bag full of earthy shiitakes, and a fresh hunk of ruby purple tuna that my husband would later sear for dinner. It was a happy, lazy family day and I had all but forgotten my precarious post-party pirouette the night before.
Sunday morning brought blue skies and below-freezing temperatures. Waiting in vain for the day to warm up, I finally forced myself out the door around 3 o'clock. The streets were crowded and cold with a harsh wind gusting up from the river. I pulled my hands into my fleece sleeves and started an easy pace.
About a half of a mile into the run, my right shin cramped up into a numb brick and no amount of stretching seemed to unknot it. I retreated home, limping through a swarm of picture-snapping tourists. Damn those sassy leather boots!
Time for a soak in the tub and a slather of Tiger Balm. Perhaps a dose of yoga, a day of rest, and a commitment to sensible shoes will cure me... that and a glass of wine.
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