Stress-Fracture. I guess that makes it the "S-F" word. I'm still not sure if I've got one or not, but, had to go get me one o' them fancy x-rays... an MRI. As if the notion of sitting still for one [i]full[/i] hour isn't torture enough, the tech turned on easy listening. It was just me, Billy Ocean and his Caribbean Queen for 60 minutes. If I had been allowed to move, I would have reached my hands to my ears and screamed while I ripped them out and stuffed the holes with tufts of my own hair. My sports doc won't be back until next Monday so, no exercise. Period. Not even swimming or walking. Even though he's not sure if I truly fucked up my leg, he figures it's good to keep me off of it. This means that I have the potential to gain a significant amount of weight. When I'm exercising, I eat anything I want... and that alone has me tipping the scales. Now I can't exercise, and I can't eat whatever I want. Oh, and the MRI was wicked expensive, so, I'm broke too. Pity Party: Table for one. I'll let y'all know if I turn up gimpy or not. Light a little candle for my leg, ok? Much obliged. Gonna go to the ladies room and turn out the lights to see if I glow in the dark now.