I was all set to accept my Wife of the Year Award today.  See, I sprained my ankle on Wednesday, and my husband was all set to leave me for two and a half days to attend the organic farming conference.  After deciding that my sprain wasn’t as terrible as I feared, I decided he should go anyway.  I made myself a nest on the couch and have been moving cautiously between it and the kitchen and the bath, going upstairs only once to go to bed.  I put in the first five CDs that I came to, put them on shuffle, and have been enjoying this Sprained Ankle Mix consisting of Enya, more Enya, some Christopher Parkening collection that I love, Nichole Nordemann "Brave," and the best of the Beach Boys.  It’s so odd and I don’t feel like getting up again to change it.  That plus lots of Scrabble, and some books and I’ve been fine.  But, oh, I was looking forward to my husband getting back home today, which he did, right on time:

With a sprained ankle.  He caught his hiking boot on a step and twisted the hell out of it.  Now I find that I am suddenly, unwillingly upgraded to Most Mobile Person in the Family, and I do not like it.  I dragged myself out to the drugstore for more Aleve and his-‘n’-hers ankle braces and gave him my "air cast" from the ER, but am NOT sharing my Vicodin with him until bedtime. 

Neither of our sprains is terrible – I did some research on Google about sprained ankles, since I had nothing but time – and found that the "snap" I heard as I fell is pretty common.  The ligaments tearing, or something.  I hate the idea of torn ligaments but supposedly they heal, and I don’t think either of ours are as bad as they could be.

Anyway, this sucks a lot.  I’m glad I’m not cycling – today would have been my first day of Lupron.  Yuck.