First Outing

Last night I attempted my first official outing since surgery, and honestly, the universe should’ve issued a warning label. Tammy offered to take me to the brewery run group for dinner, and I said yes like a fool who forgot she is currently held together by medical hardware and spite.

The second I agreed, my brain went into full crisis‑management mode, drafting escape plans like I was trying to flee a country.

“I could cancel.” “I could fake a nap.” “I could claim the moon is in retrograde.”

But deep down, I knew I needed to go. Annoying, right?!

Walking into the restaurant was… a spectacle. I crutched through the entire place at the speed of a wounded Victorian orphan, absolutely convinced everyone was staring. I felt like the world’s saddest parade.

Then I got to the table.

And everyone was kind. Like annoyingly kind.

Asking what happened, how I was doing, treating me like a normal human instead of a tragic foot‑based cautionary tale.

At first, I was stiff and grumpy and radiating “do not perceive me” energy. My brain was still spiraling. My body was like, “We should be horizontal.” But then… I loosened up. I laughed. I talked. I remembered I actually like these people.

Did I overdo it? Absolutely.

Did I sit there way too long? Correct.

Did my body file a formal complaint this morning? Several pages, single‑spaced.

And am I writing this at 3 a.m. because my foot is staging a full‑scale rebellion? Yes. Yes I am.

Would I change anything? No.

Because sometimes the thing you dread is exactly the thing that drags you out of your own head. And last night, that slow, awkward, chaotic dinner was exactly what I needed.