Yesterday morning I fell down five icy stairs on my back porch. It was incredibly painful. I sat there, alone in the cold, clawing for my phone, for two freezing–cold minutes. “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Where is LifeAlert when you need it?

After a couple of moments of flailing around, I continued on my way.  A pesky patch of ice was not about to get me down. I did 30 minutes of cardio at the gym. Then I met with a friend to work on a group project. Finally, I sat my ass down in a rock–hard chair for a three–hour seminar. Inside, I wanted to cry.

By 5:15, I limped over to SHS to appease my mother, who insisted that this was the end of the world via a series of text messages with no fewer than thirty question marks and exclamation points. The doctor touched me all over my butt and told me I would have to “tone back my lifestyle.” This scared me.

As Penn students, we are not accustomed to scaling back or slowing down. Antibiotics, pain killers, god-damn crutches? Bring ‘em on. But tell me that I have to “plan rest periods” and I’m at an absolute loss. Rest period is not in my ivy–league–educated vocabulary.

Luckily, “plan” is. And it’s doctor’s orders so I’m taking a well–deserved butt–break. I’m gonna watch hella Real Housewives, eat my weight in Aldi Mac ‘n Cheese, and DIY myself a dream catcher while I buy a bejeweled Vaseline tub on Etsy.

Who am I kidding? No I’m not. I’m too stubborn, I have too many things to do, and besides, I already have a bejeweled Vaseline tub.