My ankle hurts. Both do really, but by far and away it’s the left one hurts most. That’s left as I look down – the one nearest the window. It hurts when I get up in the morning and place my feet down on the carpet; like the bones and joints have had a petrifying night’s sleep and I am now demanding sudden and instant and multi-directional mercuriality from Lego-brick connections.
Mornings at the gym I do some specific kind of warm ups now, before, it seems, testing how hurty I can make my ankle be.
My ankle reacts badly to my strappy Jesus sandals – which I do not wear at the gym, but do when I’m semiotically summoning summertime, and being terrifically bohemian, or deliberately frumpy – and suddenly what B. used to describe (lovingly, admiringly, and entirely without a trace of mockery) as ‘racehorse’, better resemble, for an hour perhaps, tree stumps.
I’ve looked it all up online, of course, and I understand it, the hurting ankle, could be down to something other than my trainers need replacing; that it could relate to my medication, to my uterus, or to gout. I’ve heard a lot of stuff said about gout being a condition to aspire to for gentlemen of a certain mode, worn, limp-ly, like a medal for services to, and from, port and goose and a pair of mutton chops. But I’ve also known friends who’ve regarded it as something other than desired.
An appointment will be made, for sure, and I’m shopping for much better gymwear right now as an overdue matter of course.
One good thing to come of this (I know, it’s only just a hurty ankle after all) is that I find myself thinking a lot about this routine from Louis CK – a bit from a favourite performance.
© Steve Mitchell, Fisher Lane, 2012 (except the video and everything about that, clearly)