April 30, 2013: I'm finally going to the podiatrist

As you may know... on April 1st, I was granted excruciating extensor tendonitis completing 13.1 on a treadmill. Initially I thought the pain would persist for only a few days at most. A week and a half later, I was incapable of even running around the block with my girlfriend. So we went out and got wasted on a Wednesday instead. Went to Florida for vacation...and couldn't even make it once around the geriatric loop. During this really shitty month of April (see the marathon attacks post), I've tried all of the following methods to heal my foot:

- Penetrex ointment

- Arnicare Gel

- Arnica Montana 30ch

- Massaging my foot

- Elevating my foot

- Icing my foot

- Warm Epsom salt baths

- Cotton balls between toes

- Sticking my foot in my girlfriend's butt

- Praying to God and asking for repentance 

- Asking for a raise at work

ALL OF THE ABOVE WERE UNSUCCESSFUL.  At best it resulted in a nice temporary feeling; at worst my foot smelled like shit.

I then ran a local 5K race this past Sunday (put on the same mothereffers from my December/ holiday themed race. Refer to post numero uno, where I reveal that the only relevant running history was when I ran a 5K and was almost beat by a guy in a reindeer costume). So that 5K in Dec. went pretty well, I must admit. I ran it in 22 minutes, which was merely seconds from my goal. This time, however, I ran with my girlfriend and her friend. And it took me a whopping 27 minutes. My girlfriend and her friend arrived right soon after.

I beat the 8 year old girl by at least one second.

Though it's nice she ran this race out of spite support for me and my marathon training, it's hard for me to be happy for her. I'm a bastard. I don't care.

After these photos were released (where my girlfriend shines with pride as she delightfully crosses the finish line, and I am captured in a sea of middle-aged females), I couldn't take it anymore. This injury was now ruining my public image. So I sucked up my pride and finally consulted a podiatrist. After an extensive yelp search, I found a highly rated restaurant Doctor of Podiatric Medicine (DPM), and I obtained an appointment the same day. Almost scary, I agree.

Next thing you know, we'll have drive-thru triage. Actually, this already may be a reality. I didn't really check the caption in Google images.

My girlfriend came along to bitch support me during this, and to translate the doctor's thick Boston accent. Basically the appointment went something like this: 

I couldn't, for the life of me, decipher anything he said that used the phoneme "ar." Which is tricky when the whole problem is potentially stemming from ARCH related problems. He taped up my foot, asked me about my penchants for cheese and wine (because I'm French, these are my staples in my identity according to you Americans), and recommended that I change running shoes, take Motrin, and use new orthotics in my shoes.

I left the consultation feeling lingually confused, ethnically pigeonholed, and unsure (still) of my injury. So I did what anyone would do in that situation: I went and got 25¢ wings and beers from the local Irish pub down the street. Slainte!

Alright guys...

I NEED MORE READERS! If you laughed at least once reading this post, please post it on facebook, or send it to your grandmother. You will look cool. Plus it's getting really interesting now with my health problems. THANKS. (And it hurts to say thanks, trust me.)

Ciao per sempre (or until the next injury/ major news event regarding my city of Boston).