Let’s start with the painfully obvious: this is the twenty-first century. Technology is so advanced and so astonishing, the average mind is blown on a regular basis. What with the stuff being done in space exploration, artificial intelligence, genetic engineering, computer technology — we’re constantly picking our chins up off the ground.
Take a look at satellites, for example. Those things are big, fat marvels. Not so terribly long ago, satellites were exotic, clandestine gizmos used primarily for military and espionage purposes. Now, they practically run our lives. They’re essential to weather forecasting; perfectly positioned for storm tracking and as climate change monitors.
They’re also crucial to TVs, GPS receivers, and smartphones, since satellites transmit signals to those devices virtually non-stop. And let’s not forget the images beamed back by the Hubble Space Telescope, wondrous, spectacular views of a dazzling universe. Human capabilities today are seemingly limitless.
So given the amazing technology on hand, why am I rolling my foot on a frozen water bottle? I mean it. At this stage in human development, you’d think medical research would’ve improved on the ice pack. They haven’t. Medical science can reattach limbs, transplant organs, and keep us breathing long past our expiration dates, but plain old ice is still the recommended treatment for inflammation and sprains and the like.
I hate ice. Applying it to skin is a cruel, inhumane, barbaric practice and should be abolished posthaste. The plantar fascia, too. Criminy, what a flimsy excuse for a ligament that is. The plantar fascia, you see, is a band of connective tissue running along the bottom of the foot, from heel to toes, and it’s supposed to act as a shock absorber.
I’d never even heard of it until, oh, 12 years ago. That’s when I heard a distinct pop and reckoned I’d been shot in the heel. But, no, my plantar fascia had ruptured, instead. I was hobbled for months, forced to lurch around on crutches. No one navigates well on those things; they’re a flipping health hazard.
This go-round isn’t a rupture, probably just a tear, but I limp and it hurts and I’m cheesed. Summer doesn’t last forever, you know. I want to be outside frolicking in the sunshine, carefree and jaunty. Summer doesn’t care. It sails along, unfettered by a wonky plantar fascia, and refuses to grant me a timeout. Is that fair? Can I call a foul?
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