I was annoyed at a dozen things yesterday afternoon. Chief amongst them was our trash can, which had blown two blocks away in one of Carson City’s spring wind storms.

I was annoyed that I had to drive down to get it; I was annoyed that I couldn’t fit it in the back of my XTERRA; I was annoyed that I hadn’t brought it in that morning when I was supposed to.

“Pop” was the sound of all that changing. It was the sound my ankle made as I rolled it while stomping down the driveway to shut the tailgate on my SUV.

Since then I’ve learned to appreciate several things I’d glossed over before. These were the gray background of everyday life, and now they’re surprisingly difficult: Crossing the step to enter the house. Walking to the restroom. Getting to our bedroom upstairs. Feeding the dogs in the morning. Getting my kid a glass of juice when he asks for it.

My wife and her physician colleagues think it’ll probably take surgery and several weeks of recovery before my ankle is healed.

Here’s the weird thing: I’m not annoyed by any of this.

How in hell can I be furious at a runaway trash can, but calmly accept an immobilizing injury?

I have no idea. But I’m going to find out.