It started with the meltdown in Tribeca...

[WARNING: Brutally honest sharing ahead. Proceed at your own risk. You've been warned.]

I so didn't want to blog about this. I over-share enough as it is. But in the interest of "keeping it real," I'm going to go ahead and tell you what happened...

Remember when I told you I that Plantar Fasciitis is a Big Jerk? Well, I have been trying to get on with my life and basically I have been wearing an ankle brace and medicating when the pain got too bad. (I know that's not the wisest course of action. I'm just being honest.)

So I got myself to New York last month to cook Pastelitos for 100, which was a tremendously fun experience, but I seriously overdid it. I was on my feet, my ridiculous-how-much-pain-I'm-in feet, for twelve (!) hours. I hate to admit that I had to pop vicodin most of the day just to get through it, but there you have it.

This was, of course, after Eric reminded me dozens of times before I left, "Don't overdo it! Remember you're still healing."

I had planned to take a late flight home from New York the day after my gig with the CCC of NY so that I could have one really fun sightseeing day in the city. The Foodie Tour had already happened the night before and lucky for me, my friends were gracious enough to drive me everywhere so I didn't have to do too much walking. But even then, every step was pretty painful.

All I had read (from Dr. Google) was that plantar fasciitis hurt with the first couple of steps and eventually improved. This was not my experience. My personal experience was that the first couple of steps were excruciating and then the vicodin took the edge off the pain, which never really diminished.

I'm a little hard-headed about these things, so I soldiered on. Ignoring the pain for as long as I could, then medicating when I absolutely had to.

I had made plans on the Monday after my Twelve (!) Hour Cooking Day to go to the Museum of Modern Art and take in the Rain Room Exhibit and maybe find a cronut. (We all know how that turned out.) No go.

Because when I woke up on Monday morning in my hotel room in Tribeca, I. Could. Not. Walk.

At all.

Because I had been limping for so many hours, my left knee (plantar fasciitis is in the right foot) which was taking all the stress was swollen to about twice its size. (Oh, why am I even sharing this? I know. Life without pretending.)

I was so nauseated from all the vicodin the day before that I could not stand to take any more. I was in so much distress to find myself 3,000 miles from home, on my own, and unable to get around. So I cancelled my plans with my friend. My one sightseeing day in New York City was not going to happen. Not only that, but how was I even going to get out of my bed?

The Tribeca Sheraton was very gracious to let me check out really late without incurring any extra charges. (For this act of kindness I will be loyal to them forever.) I hobbled over to the ice machine which was just down the hall and made some ice packs for my knee and for my foot. (Are you bored with reading this horror story yet?) And I drank tons of water, hoping to flush my system as much as possible.

Then I started to feel a little better. I decided that I wouldn't attempt to get to Times Square, but that I would go see the new World Trade Center Memorial, which was much nearer to where I was staying.

I grabbed a taxi and got to the WTC.

It was really breathtaking. But it was also 95 degrees and about 80% humidity. I took photos and decided I could maybe walk a little in the area of Lower Manhattan.

What a poor choice that was! Without making this more excruciating for you who are reading this, I ended up walking around for over an hour just trying to find a taxi to get me back to Tribeca and the cool comfort of my hotel lobby.

I held it together until I finally walked into the lobby of the Sheraton Tribeca and then.....

The sobs were loud and oh-so audible to everyone. And I couldn't stop. I was tired and in pain and so very far from home. Pobrecita! (Poor me.)

Too many hours later, as my flight finally started to descend into Orange County, I breathed a very long and emotional sigh of relief.

I've never, ever, been so glad to be home. So, all in all, it was a fantastic trip... until it wasn't.

I finally jumped (figuratively, not literally, because, hello! I'm still in pain) through all the insurance hoops to get my long overdue appointment with a podiatrist who did an untra-sound and was shocked (shocked!) that I could even stand up, let alone walk.

"You have stress fractures along both sides of your ankle. We'll have to immobilize the foot for at least three weeks."

Which brings me to today. I take full responsibility for my personal stupidity and hard-headedness.

I'm wearing this lovely and super attractive inflatable cast. (Who knew there was such a thing?)

And I promise I'm being very obedient to stay off my feet for the requisite 3 weeks.

As the late, great Cuban comedian, Alvarez Guedes used to say, "Te paso por comem**rda.*"

I know. Shut up.

*"It happened to you because you're....an idiot." (For my non-Cuban readers, it's a less-than-PG-rated descriptive word, but that's not important right now.) *sigh*