I broke my ankle hiking a month ago, but it feels like years have passed since I was able to move around with ease and run and jump without fear of breaking something. Has it only been a month? Limited mobility is a drag I wouldn't wish on anyone.
OK, the Scotch has taken the edge off a little bit already, so this rant isn't going to be as animated as it would have been had I been writing twenty minutes ago from the parking lot that was 10th St. Allow me to explain.
It snowed in Atlanta today. And by snowed, I mean an hour and a half of steady flurries bookended by mild to moderate rain. Definitely unpleasant, but nothing catastrophic. But judging by the poor display of driving I saw on my way to and from Emory this afternoon, you'd think the apocalypse was nigh. Keep in mind that the drivers in this city are terrible under the best meteorological circumstances. Add a little frosted cloud powder to the equation and it's unmitigated chaos. It took me 45 minutes to drive four miles (plus another fifteen minute walk from the garage to the performing arts center, in slippery snow-slush, on a broken ankle no less, shhh don't tell my doctor) to have a five minute meeting where I was basically just told a bunch of stuff I already knew. Then another 45 minute drive home.
I know this is all sounding very grandparent-y, when-I-was-your-age-I-walked-twenty-miles-uphill-in-a-blizzard-both-ways kind of ornery, but that's how I feel right now. I have no reason to, because even in my crippled state I've managed to find some work and continue to book gigs and more or less doing OK for myself. I knew the process would be slow, and I honestly didn't expect to start getting work as early as I did. But I am not a patient person, and this ankle fracture coupled with trying to start over in a new city has been an exercise in infinite patience. I'll get through it, if it doesn't kill me first.