Slice of humble pie

Maybe it's just selective memory, but somehow being on crutches way back when didn't seem like such a big deal. Well, except for that one mortifying Bambi incident along the wretched green tile floors of the PJH hallway ... (i.e. rain-wet rubber crutch tips meet rain-wet tile floor and all appendages spread in opposite directions, obligating mortified, crippled girl to crawl across to retrieve said flung crutch in front of jeering adolescent onlookers). Other than that slightly traumatic incident, though, I pretty much remember it being a cinch.

Seeing as "cinch" would not quite be the word of choice this time 'round, I have come to the conclusion that there are four possible options for this difference in experience:

1. I've lost my youthful spryness
2. People in Geneva are far more sympathetic than those in Kitsap
   
3. Mother's helping hand was taken utterly for granted
4. Selective memory

To provide but a few (consecutive) examples of these latest reminders of humility:

The home-apartment shuffle (Get it? Like the supermarket shuffle??)
The apartment building requires a code to unlock the front door. Said code must be entered in the call box to the left of the double doors; friendly automated voice says 'You may now enter'; and door on the far right is unlocked. For 5 seconds. For the record, five seconds does NOT allow enough time for the slow, elderly, klutzy or otherwise physically challenged to get back over to open the door. Repeat shenanigan shuffle + lock out scenario 3 times over before mastering the art of standing at call box while using right crutch to push open the door... from four feet away.

Para-Olympics
What do you get when you take two fine women, two bad feet and two pairs of crutches ... and put them in the same office? Lots of squeeky crutch noises, many doting colleagues, one antsy insurance administrator, unlimited desktop tea deliveries, gracious lunch-time grocery orders... and well-attended hallway races. It's now been duly verified: I am the certified Crutch Klutz, and the slowest one at that. At least mine have padded handles.

Old men laughing
Sweat-drenched crutch girl pauses on street corner across from neighborhood bar for a much needed breather. Look up to find three elderly men--one of whom is apparently a crutch friend--looking over and laughing. Yes, indeed, the 70 year old smoker masters these sticks better than I can, no breaks needed.

Picture of pity
I was in the home stretch, 50 feet to go. It was a heavy sigh of releif/big gasp for air. I didn't really even realize it came out... but apparently the passing neighbor guy did.

"Just watching makes me pity you! Have courage, and good luck!"

This was immediately followed by second passerby trying to avoid eye contact as he unsuccessfully stifled a smirk ... followed by the mailman courteously stepping out of my way and saying:

"It's not easy! Have courage, and good luck!"

Ok, so I get it. I DO look as pathetically weak as I feel. I'm glad I can bring a smile to your day--you've certainly put a good self-appreciating laugh in mine.

Courtesy calls/humble pie down your throat
TGIH: Thank God I'm home. It's Crutch Girl's lucky day--the neighbors are standing by the code box. They kindly enter code, I dutifully begin the fight with my battle sticks and the door. Suddenly, kind older-like man appears out of nowhere to hold said door open. My kind reply? "Thank you, kind sir, I really appreciate it". His response? A full three minute raised-voice lecture on how:

"You're just like everyone else in your generation ... you're too proud and independent to ask for help ... you have to grow up and get over yourself before you do even more damage ... (now turns to neighbor couple at door) what happened to common courtesy and helping people out ... are you blind? ... use your head!"

Yes, yes, thank you kind sir, forgive thy neighbors and I will take my (double?) slice of humble pie.

Meet Peroneous Brevis

They say that the the greatest challenge of the marathon is not finishing the race but making it to the starting line uninjured and rested.

In 2006, I tossed my Paris marathon registration under a debilitating cough I couldn't shake--never made it to the starting line.

In 2008, I threw in the towel at kilometer 33 of the Madrid marathon having been stupid enough to go into it entirely untrained.

In 2010, I am going into the Madrid marathon yet again, but this time with hundreds of solid miles under the belt, new half marathon PRs, a dedicated fan club, a bitter resolve to 'finish what I started' ... and a peroneus brevis strain six weeks before the big game.

One swollen-foot-the-size-of-a-plump-papaya, six x-rays, four nurses and three hours in the waiting room later, I am now staring down 60 painkiller/anti-inflammatory pills and two weeks worth of ridiculously awkward crutches while chanting loudly "I think I can", "I think I can", "I think I can" ... still finish the marathon, that is.

The all-important twenty(plus)-milers planned for this weekend and next are clearly a bit, um, out of the picture for the moment, but good ol' Running Planet is providing the all important glimmer of hope that perhaps all is not lost. Yet.

So, Mr. Peroneous. The next two weeks are dedicated fully to you.

Two weeks of sitting on my bum, two weeks of blogging, catching up on heaps of emails, scrapbooks and studying ... interchanged with two weeks of (re)discovering what an absolute klutz I am on crutches, how (in)accessible Europe is for the physically challenged and how very, very much we take our general spryness for granted.

Just please let me have my (active) life back after?

Ladies night and newfound pleasures

I've made a new discovery in Geneva. That's right, two and a half years of literally walking within feet of this place EVERY SINGLE DAY, never knowing that I had yet to discover the hottest place in town. Literally ... like 180 degrees Fahrenheit hot.

We had a bit of a discussion this evening whether the culture of community baths, saunas, hammams, etc. exists in the States, and have come to no certain conclusion. But I am quite certain indeed that hammams/Turkish baths will fall into that category of "Top 5 things I will miss most about Europe" if ever I head elsewhere.

They are fabulous.

A couple of weeks ago we checked out the baths in Yverdon les Bains for the first time. Final verdict? Great baths, easy access from Geneva, 30 bucks a pop and stuck with a time limit. (Like most places.) In my book the winner is still Leukerbad, with its 360 degree mountain views, but my wallet doesn't seem to be in frequent agreement.

Enter Bains des Paquis. 17 bucks, no time limit, three steps away from work, built ON the lake, best food in town and Tuesdays blocked out for women only.

A little slice of heaven.

Where else can you sit in the sauna and peer out of custom made windows that provide a view out over the lake across the Geneva night skyline, snowy mountains and glowing cityscape alike?

Where else can you sit in a steamy hammam with bay windows and feel like you are floating right on top of the water?

And where else can you escape to a women's-only world where the normally burka-clad mix and mingle with women of a dozen different languages and ages ... all while sweating, steaming and exfoliating away?

Apparently only at Bains des Paquis.