I blame the cheese.

Or maybe just the manufacturers of cheese packaging, especially packaging that says “reclosable” and shows fake perforation and a picture of scissors. Don’t fall for this, people.

On a good day when all the stars are aligned correctly, such packaging might be reclosable, but it will never be opened again, not even with Moses there to do the parting. You’ll stand there for 20 minutes trying to get a grip on those slippery little pieces of plastic to pry them apart and then get so frustrated, you’ll decide just to forget the whole thing and cut the stupid thing open, but when you go to the scissors drawer, you’ll be in such a huff, you’ll trip over your pant leg and fall over the kitchen stool and break your blasted ankle.

At least that’s what happened to me.

Merl was out of town (of course) so I called my friend Roberta, whose response was, “What, again?”

Roberta is not always the most tactful person on the block. She was referring to the fact that I sprained my ankle badly three years ago, and it happened to be the same ankle. Despite being tactless, she drove me to the hospital. On the way she tried to tell me that my body might be telling me to slow down.

“That’s ridiculous, Roberta,” I responded. “If my body wanted me to slow down it would tell me to take a nap, not trip over itself.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she said. “The body has its own way of talking.”

It took a long time to be seen at the hospital and to get an x-ray. Meanwhile, I was getting more and more irritated because I had a meeting later that evening and a long list of things I needed to do that week. Plus, my ankle hurt like the dickens.

The doctor who finally saw me looked more like a high school cheerleader than an M.D., and she had the unfortunate name of Dr. Blight. I consider it quite honorable on my part that I did not comment on these facts, especially after she told me that I had indeed broken the same ankle I had sprained three years earlier, and tried to imply that I might be to blame for not being careful “at my age.”

I told her that I was exceptionally careful “for my age,” thank you very much, and it was the cheese’s fault, not mine. If she would just give me a cast or a boot, or whatever they do nowadays, and some crutches, I would be on my merry way. I had a meeting to get to and lots of other things that needed doing. Then I winced with pain.

“Well, I’m afraid you won’t be doing any of those things for awhile, Ms. Nowes,” she said, showing her Pepsodent smile. “You’re going to have to stay off that ankle for at least a month. I mean no pressure on that foot at all.”

“A month! No, that’s not possible,” I said, shaking my head, wincing again.

“Well, if you want it to get better and not worse, you’re going to have to do what I say,” said Cheerleader Blight. “I’ll get you some pain medication, and you’re going to have to rest that ankle. You might even find that the rest is good for you in other ways. Think of it as a time of rejuvenation.” She flashed me one more brilliant smile, then left the room with a flip of the chart, heading for her next victim.

I turned and looked at Roberta. “A whole month?! Rejuvenation!?”

“Oh, get over yourself, Ida Mae,” she said. “I’m willing to believe the world can live without you for one month.”

Well, that shut me up. Plus, I was in a lot of pain. And you know what? She was right. I went home and called all the chairs of the committees I’m on and handed over my responsibilities for a while. I even decided to get off a couple of committees. Then I cancelled some engagements I really didn’t want to do anyway, and a couple I did.

My friends brought over some books and movies, and the neighbors brought food. Merl stepped up to the plate – no surprise there – and is treating me like a queen. It’s not a role I generally like, but maybe it’s okay to get spoiled once in a while.

It does feel like my body is healing – not just my ankle, but the whole thing. Maybe Dr. Blight really did know what she was talking about. And maybe my body was trying to tell me something.

Maybe so, but I’m still never buying anymore cheese in these so-called “reclosable” packages. That’s for sure.