I'm bringing sexy back...

Some people have killer moves.

Some don't.

I personally think my moves are awesome.  Unfortunately when I move, things tend to get damaged.

Things on my body, that is.

What started as playful silliness with my husband ended with me flat on my back and crying on the bathroom tile.  Apparently cheap towel racks in track homes don't come with an assurance of holding a grown woman's body weight when she is sashaying around and showing off her best high-kicks and Jr. Miss moves.  When I hit the floor, Popeye immediately went into Deputy Sheriff mode, assessing my injuries and trying not to die of laughter.  I immediately went into panic mode and prayed that the ground would open up and swallow me whole.  Once his initial once-over proved that no bones had punctured skin and no blood had be shed, Popeye asked what hurt more, my foot or my ego.  I wasn't sure at first...

...but two weeks, three doctors visits, and a lot of limping around later, I'm positive what my answer would be.

My foot. 

Apparently I strained or tore or snapped or did SOMETHING to some of the tendons in my foot and my heel and my ankle... which led the podiatrist I was referred to to prescribe this pretty puppy and some pills to help ease the inflammation and pain in my right footal region.

My husband thought I was hot before, but look at me now. Who wouldn't want to snuggle up to this pair of foxy legs in bed!?