Not Quite Toeing The Line

This is a first. I haven’t been inside a mall for a month now. My broken metacarpal doesn’t permit it. Now I feel far too restless. Nobody at home pays any heed to my demands for that particular variety of organic brown rice and green tea infused with lemon, mint and honey. For weeks I have been a sitting duck for their ministrations.
Sigh.
I never thought a spot of spot jogging would put me under house arrest. Or “a compulsory holiday,” like my doctor declared. Just like dear old Reggie who would ski all over the slopes without incident only to come home and slip on the bathroom floor. I guess it is after all like Ram says, “Es Muß Sein.” It Must Be.
Besides the pain and the terrible inconvenience to me and the family (to say nothing of the two crutches), I must admit it hasn’t been all that bad. No rush hour traffic, no smelly trains, no malodorous commuters, no grubby platforms. No sprint runs to catch the local, no gymnastics to get in and no sukha bhel.
There were of course friends to regale me with tales of paranoia, hypochondria, matchmaking and summer recipes. Some even paid a visit. It’s a pity that my synthetic blue plaster did not allow for any autographs. The faraway beau, for his part, sent sweet nothings for the beleaguered bone.
I have an appointment scheduled this week. May the X-Ray show healing. Then it is back to the grind. Not that I mind.
Mind it!