And the diagnosis is...

...not a neuroma, although the doctor assured me that my Mother-the-Foot-Expert's over the phone diagnosis was quite reasonable. The problem is that I lacked some of the major symptoms - specifically the one where when the doctor squeezes your foot you jump through the roof. His alternative diagonisis, which he decided was pretty cut-and-dried (especially when I said the pain started a few days after a 20-mile run) is metatarsalgia. This sounds much more impressive than it actually is - basically it's pain in the metatarsals. Kind of a dud diagnosis.

But it at least has some specific treatment options, and a treatment time window. So long as I do what I'm supposed to, the pain should go away in 2-3 weeks, and if it doesn't go away in 3 weeks I need to go back and see the doctor again. The treatment involves painless things like ibuprofin and ice (and I am icing my foot even as I write), as well as the slightly more intrusive flat-soled shoe, a big ugly black Velcro shoe that doesn't bend when you walk. Its only redeeming quality is that it looks thoroughly medical and therefore ought to make observers believe I have some kind of foot injury (which I do) rather than some kind of odd sense of fashion.

But then there's the final treatment, the one that no runner in their right mind ever wants to hear. For the next 2-3 weeks, or until my injury heals, there will be no running. Not even a nice easy 3-miler in the morning.

This comes at an incredibly inopportune time. Normally I would suck it up and say, "At least it's just for two or three weeks," because 2-3 weeks on the elliptical machine is unpleasant, but with my iPod it's manageable, especially compared to the 6 weeks I've put up with during past injuries. I'm willing to cross-train for 2-3 weeks if it gets me back up on my running feet. But the problem is that, since it's summer and I don't have free access to a gym like I do when I'm enrolled in classes, my cross-training options are limited. Almost nonexistent in fact. I can ride my back, which will please Eric and Dad, and I will ride my bike, but I'm not a cyclist and my, er, sitting muscles are not quite hardened to the point that I can ride for very long distances, or even for two days in a row, without considerable pain. And besides, I simply don't have time to get in a bike ride (which takes more time than a run) on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays when I need to leave the house by eight for my teaching job. With such short notice, it's simply not possible to completely replace my running regiment with a comparable cycling routine.

In other words, for the next nine days before I move into my new apartment (which has a small but nicely equipped fitness center) you can expect that I will be just a little grumpier than usual. I will try not to show it around people, but internally I will not be a very happy camper.

I suppose this is a learning experience. There are plenty of times in life when we have a choice between fulfilling our immediate desires (I want to go running today, even if it is painful) or putting off our gratification for a greater future good (I'd rather be able to run 3 weeks from now without any pain at all). It's hard because we're not wired to think of our future selves. No matter how intelligent we may be, no matter how well we can assess our conditional future happiness, we are still highly in tune with now and have a very hard time letting go of it. So I know perfectly well that I need to follow the doctor's orders, and I'm going to be good, but I know I'm not going to be happy about it, and I know I'm going to want more than anything to ignore what I'm supposed to be doing.

Ugh.