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Margaret Pilarski

editorial assistant

i'm a feminist, and if you're reading this then you are too, you just might not know it yet. i like to eat cheese and travel, but i'm usually broke and/or spending my money on shoes and cocktail rings. i love dogs, rain, and driving offensively (and putting the last comma in a listed series). i'm se...

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thoroughbred ankles

after eight belles went down at the derby, sally jenkins wrote that she ran “with the heart of a locomotive, on champagne-glass ankles."

that imagery of champagne-glass ankles has been stuck in my head since the first time i read it. it’s perfect. it’s haunting and delicate and heart-breaking at the same time.

somehow, in the last week or so, i must have done something to my own ankles and all i think about when i go down the stairs or when i switch my gait to a jog is my own champagne-glass ankles shattering just a little bit by bit. teeny tiny bones with names that are 67 letters long, crunching against each other in the wrong positions. i tried to tone down the running last week and this weekend, but rooney likes to get a good run in, and i can’t walk fast enough to get a decent breeze on my sweat-drenched face or outpace the mosquitoes.

on sunday, i broke down and headed to dick’s sporting goods and spent about 10 minutes too long in an aisle comparing millions of ankle braces: standard vs moderate vs premium support (premium support looks more like an ice skating boot without a foot or blade-no thanks), tie up vs wrap vs neoprene straps and factor in some velcro... 30 whole dollars later, i had two matching wrap and velcro braces.

when i got home, i ran back and forth across our house (very confusing for the dog) and tried them out. after some adjustments, socks, shoes, and poo bags, we all departed the house to go on a walk and a test run. for a few tries, i got a decent distance in, but i’m sure someone would tell me i’m harming my ankles by even running more than helping them with the support. i could still feel the jags of pain when my foot hit the ground. even though every other inch in my body was ready to run, my ankles just wouldn’t let my foot flex and catch me and push off, flex, catch, push, flex, catch, push. i couldn’t even stop gracefully, just a pathetic, unbalanced halt once my ankles told me i was done.

it’s just so frustrating not being able to run. i’m not even a runner! i hate to run! i loathe physical activity! but the fact that my body cannot and will not work properly is beyond aggravating. it hurts in more places than my glass ankles.

to run, to be free, is impossible. and to make it worse, it makes me feel unsafe. what if a crazy person were to attack me? what then? i’ll tell you what: i would get about 10 feet of space between me and my attacker before my awkward attempt at running would end and i would have to try to speedwalk away from said serial killer. yeah right.

so for now, if you see me doing the wincing run hobble around hampton park – just take my dog, run him about 50 feet and back and i’ll be eternally grateful. meanwhile i’ll be doing ankle rolls and hoping people don’t think i wear socks this tall. it’s an ankle brace, not a huge tube sock! i may be an ankle sprain victim, but don’t confuse it with fashion victim.