Two things are getting old: the construction and my ankle injury. I realize these two situations will be stinking ripe before they’re finished. On the former, at least I have some company at the house, and the guys are really nice. They’re always asking about my foot and teaching me new Spanish words (clean ones; I already know the dirty ones). I learned how to say, “I want four more wheelbarrows of dirt over there.” I look forward to the day when I can look out my office and bedroom windows and not see a Bobcat. On the latter, I graduated from the boot to an old ankle splint–wrap combo, which I’ve kept in a drawer since the last time I needed it 14 years ago. It was self-matriculation, however, since the foot doctor would probably not be pleased. When I saw her on Thursday, she said I’d need to be in the boot for 6 to 8 weeks. Yo no quiero, José!

I went for an afternoon roll around the big block, my left leg getting used to the propulsion thing, but it sure did tire me out. When I got home, I begged Hubby to go for a drive with me. I wasn’t up for walking any more but also wasn’t ready to sit at home. We drove through some suburban neighborhoods in the next town over where I’d never been before. I can’t decide whether being excited about that is pathetic or a sign that I can go with the flow and be content no matter what. At least we have plenty of roses to stop and smell now—right outside our front door.