A Dose of My Own Medicine

A week or so ago, I suggested to the Governor of Georgia that he might “Make Haste Slowly” so we can “Function in Disaster” but “Finish in Style” in the reopening of our communities.

Those words have boomeranged right back at me  and I am trying very hard to follow my own advice. As if I have any choice in the matter.

About ten days ago, when I was most definitely not making haste slowly, I tripped on a step I didn’t know existed and broke a bone in my foot.  It’s a common break.  It even has a name.  The Jones Fracture.   There are variations on that theme and I have the one they call the “Bad Boy.”

I thought I’d done my time in the trenches with the three “Bad Boys” I’d birthed, all those many years ago.  Surely, I’d paid my dues.  Apparently not.

That foot is now in a cast from toe to knee, can bear no weight and is reliant on its mother to steer its knee scooter in a proper manner so as not to ram it up against something hard, like a wall, which might, indeed, hurt it.  A lot.  And it will be thus for several weeks.

I’ve learned that as much fun as it is to go whizzing around the house on my jazzy little scooter, a soft breeze in my hair, feeling quite the catch-me-if-you-can roguette, I must indeed Make Haste a bit more Slowly.

Otherwise, I could very easily find myself “Functioning in Style” but “Finishing in Disaster.”