I twisted my ankle a few weeks ago. There were no athletic feats involved, just a pair of Danskos and an uneven surface. I wrapped it in a bandage and wobbled along on crutches for a few days, but mostly it was just weak and tender. 

 

I resisted using the crutches as it was a magnet for attention. I did not want to divert compassion from people who actually deserve it, like the boy who recently had brain surgery, or the woman whose sister died. I preferred to limp along, propping the whole leg up when I could. If it was convenient to not mention it, I didn't. But I was reluctant to do extra walking. When I was at a friend's house five doors away, I asked her to drive me home, even though I looked pretty lazy. 

 

One thing I noticed was a sharp increase in my protective body space. If anyone or anything came within eighteen inches of the ankle my hackles went up, and I activated an invisible force field. Even small smacks from chairs or limbs reverberated the pain. This was a shift from my regular stance. After nine children and twenty five years of breastfeeding I ordinarily have no residual response to being sat on or yanked. Other people's babies can grab my hair and plant an applesaucey fist on my shoulder and I don't flinch. 

 

But for a few weeks I sent out the subliminal message. Don't mess with my ankle.