DJ Otterpop

I have a broken foot. I thought it would be great. My beau(s) could come over, pamper moi, brush my hair, paint my finger nails, cuddle (is it just me or does that word totally suck?) under my duvet, while watching the entire box set of BBC's Pride and Prejudice. I would be up and on my feet (foot) again in under a week, although my doctor told me that it could be up to a six month recovery period.

No. Sadly, my recovery has not been that bliss that my pathetic mind envisioned. Instead, I have been drooling from the madness of having my foot bound up like some medieval concubine. I do not know when it went out of vogue to slap a plaster cast on broken bones, let the patient hobble around for six weeks, and then cut said cast off. Instead, it is the hip thing to wrap the offending appendage like King Tut in various ace bandages, the broken bones and stitches swaddled like the Christ child deep under the mountains of white and beige. The doctor gave me the directions of, "Six weeks completely off your feet- 21 out of 24 hours- with your foot elevated!," handed me a prescription for six months of Vicodin, and patted me on the back (I almost fell over, since I am a six foot klutz on crutches).

My poor roommate has been turned into a modern day gay male Florence Nightingale. He is getting me food, water, cleaning my dishes, waiting around while I take showers (in case I slip as I roll around the tub, gimp style). I can not even get a glass of water for myself, since with I can not put any weight on my foot, and "crutching around" requires two hand at all times.

I am so crazed from the Vicodin that I do not dare have any of my suitors see me. I am hoping that my vacancy makes them grow fonder- although I fear that all this laying about with my foot in the air is making me more Jaba the Hut like than princess-esque.

Sigh.