Essentially 36 hours of bedrest later, I am in fact walking, albeit slowly and gingerly. The swelling never got too bad -- there's just a mildly discolored, puffy one-square-inch square to indicate that anything happened. The foot is sore, but it doesn't really hurt, and it doesn't feel like I'm doing any additional damage. I'm even going up and down stairs, so no longer am I restricted to one floor. I might even be able to get to work on Tuesday, yippee.
If you were foolish enough to ask what I did for 36 hours of bedrest (but you're not, you know better), I'd have to tell you that I did virtually nothing. I did start writing a short story, but otherwise I lived a completely mundane existence that jumped between icing my foot, reapplying the Ace bandage after icing my foot, eating, sleeping, going to the bathroom (on one foot yesterday, using both today), talking on the phone to a number of people (including my Dad, checking up on me from Italy after he read my blog) and hanging out on the web. I should have grabbed a good book, but I don't actually have anything at home on my "must read" list, and didn't feel motivated enough to read something that I wasn't burning to read. Pathetic, but true. For what it's worth, doing nothing made me absolutely stircrazy -- I don't want to imagine how bad it'd be to be bedridden for a week or longer.
Maybe tomorrow I can get out of the house some, even if a nice long walk is off the table.