The Boot

I’ve been given the boot. Sadly, I mean this in both a figurative and literal sense.

We’ll start with the former and get that out of the way. Yes, I recently lost my job. It wasn’t because I wasn’t an excellent employee…but it was more because my boss is in his 70s and I think he’s beginning to look for an exit strategy out of the work world.  His condo in Boca is probably sending its siren song, which has gotten louder and louder over the past year.  We did, after all, have a pretty nasty winter.

No matter his reasoning, he decided to sell the business for which I was primarily working.  I had thought the day might come, but was thinking later rather than sooner. So it took me by surprise and I’ve had to take some time to regroup and deal with the culture shock of not having to get up at the crack of dawn, shower, chug a cup of scalding hot coffee and battle with the masses on my way towards downtown every morning.

And I’m pretty much there.  I especially like that I don’t have to chug my coffee as I’m not fond of first degree burns on the roof of my mouth. And not having to deal with the daily commute is an even nicer perk, not to mention the savings in fuel for my car every week.

But I think it took me a little longer to regroup because of the second boot thing.

That’s where the literal boot comes into play. Yes, I’m wearing a lovely black boot that extends to my knee and has all manner of metal parts and Velcro straps all over it.  This boot was courtesy of my podiatrist.

I can’t believe I actually have to write the words, “my podiatrist.”  I’ve barely come to terms with the fact that I have to go to a general practitioner every year. Having the name and number of a specialist in my phone directory is a bit of a shock.

Nevertheless, I knew the time had come to visit a specialist as I’ve been dealing with heel pain for the past several months and it wasn’t going away on its own.

I valiantly bypassed the free valet parking and walked into the office trying ever so hard not to limp. I was wearing my dressy Anne Klein wedges, which are pretty much the only shoes I can walk in that don’t cause me to hobble.

As I sat there waiting for my name to be called, I noticed all sorts of people shuffling by wearing casts and boots. There were crutches and walkers and canes, oh my! And there were a few poor souls in wheelchairs waiting in that waiting room as well.

I have to admit that I thought to myself, “Oh, thank goodness I was able to get here on my own two feet and don’t have to deal with all that stuff!”

 

And then my name was called.

Before the words “bone spurs” and “Achilles tendon involvement” and the ever-dreaded, “Plantar Fasciitis” were out of the doctor’s mouth, her assistant walked in carrying a massive black boot, which they proceeded to strap around my foot and leg.

I was told to wear it all day every day and to only take it off to shower and sleep.

Yeesh. I was beginning to regret my decision to have my foot checked out by a specialist.  And I definitely regretted not taking advantage of the free valet parking.

Nevertheless, I will wear this boot for however long it takes if I can avoid surgery. So I’m dealing with the boot. Both kinds.

But I’ve got a great support system and a loving husband who is here for me. Even if he does call me “Gimpy.”