My view right now is a long stretch of jeans, and my ankle stretched out beyond that - on top of a complicated hierarchy of ice-filled Ziploc bags. I take turns, icing first the right side, then the left.
I've got my laptop on my lap, looking at photo after photo of Facebook friends - including my own crowd of running peeps - finishing the Baltimore Running Festival.
Most of them ran the half marathon today, and I had planned from the minute I finished the BRF last year to be running it along with them.
And here I sit, icing the same Achilles injury that's plagued me since February 28. I iced these ankles at 6 am, 1pm, and now 10pm. I did not run today.
I bravely blogged about goals, and game changers, and embracing a season of healing - a season of stillness, if you will - back in March. By October 15 I have lost patience. I don't want to embrace the season of healing. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and run with my friends in the woods, the way I used to every Sunday.
But the human body is a funny thing, and Achilles injuries even funnier. If you tempt them - if you push further than you know you should, you will pay. Two weeks ago I ignored the twinges, the quiet warning signs that I should know by now to respect, because I wanted so badly to run with a friend in the foothills of LA.
I'm still paying. Paying for fighting the Stillness. Not that I really believe Stillness subscribes to the philosophy of paybacks, but it's one of those immutable rules of Life: if you ignore what you know to be true, what you know to be necessary, you will always, always regret it.
Tonight, I'm mostly whining about Stillness. It's true.