Shoes are a problem. Any pressure on the healing scar on my heel and I want to curl into a little ball and quiver. It’s not supposed to be this way, but what can you do? Knowing I was going on these trips, I had the surgery in early January, assured that I’d be walking pain-free by now.
It’s better, certainly, than it was before surgery when I could barely hobble down the stairs. But walking six to eight miles a day in slippahs causes tissues to swell alarmingly.
Ice and elevation, I think. 800 mg of Ibuprofen.
Swallowing the pills, I open my purse and take out the quart-sized plastic bag that I’d used to get my mini-hand sanitizer and sunscreen through airport security—TSA: keeping our skies safe at four ounces of fluid or less at a time.
The first time I try to use it, I have to beg a bartender to fill it full of ice. The second and third time I fill it myself near the buffet line. Apparently, I’m supposed to buy chemical cold packs at the gift shop.
I’m also supposed to wear high heels and formal wear at dinner tonight.
Not going to happen.
Besides, I’m on vacation, damn it.