After a bit of insurance odyssey, I finally got to see the expert. He was moderately astonished and a little scandalized that I'd been walking around for the past week - but confirmed after an ultra-sound that I have a ruptured fascia.
This is good and bad. Bad in that, I have to wear that monstrous thing for the next two to six weeks. Good in that, once it heals, it'll actually be better than it was before the rupture - the surgical procedure that is used to repair these issues is actually to force a rupture. So my body (and the attacking ninjas I was fending off while injured) did the surgery for me. Free of charge!
I'm not allowed to move around without this thing on. Surfing, dancing, and all the things that make life fun (other than fucking and Xbox) are right out. Thank god for the X-Box, at least...
The worst part is, I'm not allowed to take pain-killers! Pain, you see, is nature's barometer of how much I'm healing. So if I mask the pain, I might be masking the lack of healing, which is important to know. Yay! I can at least take something at night - just not during the day. You know, when I'm walking, and it hurts.
Ok, ok - I'll strop grousing. Well no, one more thing. When I was just hobbling around on a walking stick, I could at least try and pretend it was a sophisticated gentleman kind of thing. But now? Herman Munster ain't in it - this thing is hideous. I'm wearing my New Rock boots to match on the other side, fashion disaster or no.
So, listen, ladies - form an orderly queue to the left, if you please - Santa Monica's sexiest shoes are available to squire you about!