Yesterday someone told me those three most important words in the English language all of us long to hear:

No more crutches. 

I can hardly believe my good fortune--someone up there still likes me. (Or, more likely, simple isn't up-to-date on my life-shaming exploits but whatever, I'll take it.) I met with my orthopedic doctor yesterday and he began with, "I have some good news," to which I replied, "Don't play with my emotions." But, unless it's the cruelest April Fool's joke on record, I am officially released to swim, bike, walk and do yoga. We're waiting three more weeks before running or any overhead weight-lifting. One month ago I would have said that facing six weeks of no running would kill me. Now I'm ecstatic that I only have six weeks and that I can so many other things. 

Now that I’m banned from working out, I find myself with an abundance of free time on my crutch-clutching hands. What to do with all the spare minutes in the day? The answer, apparently, is drink.

If I make it out of this recovery period without becoming a raging alcoholic, it won’t be for lack of trying. Upon finding out I was banned from all workouts, my friends more or less put me on a suicide-watch, the main distraction strategy apparently being to feed me wine. People are pouring out of the woodwork with offers to imbibe. “Oh my gosh, you poor thing. Are you okay? Do you want to meet for a drink?”