Stubbed is a puny understatement. Hammered is okay. Clobbered and walloped are better. But I’m going with the wildly ungrammatical; I pile-drove my toes into the bed frame. Sorry if that clanks or sounds nonsensical, but it’s hard to think with the screaming in my head.
I broke a toe, the big one, the one who went to market. However, if the searing, crippling, thrumming pain is any indication, I pulverized all five in the melee. It’s also conceivable my ankle’s sprained and shin splints can’t be ignored. I ought to be in an ICU under heavy sedation.
Swelling and discoloration have transformed my once dainty, alabaster foot into a Sasquatch-sized paw in a glossy Pantone 269, deep eggplant. Isn’t it astonishing how stretchy and colorful skin can be? And uglyfying, especially at the start of summer. Goodbye flip-flops. Goodbye happy feet. Hello orthopedic shoes.
Now, in case you’re wondering how I hobbled myself, I‘m curious, too One minute I was gathering laundry and the next I was hopping on one foot and howling at the moon. It’s possible I tripped over a stray shoe. It’s also possible I tripped over my own feet. But the likeliest suspect is the floor.
I’ve suffered more than one accident, and loads of close calls, in that precise location. I swear the floor’s warped or ridged or furrowed, because it catches my shoe and sends me flying into door frames, walls, the closet, whatever’s handy. I shoot around the bedroom like a billiard ball at least three times a year. But only in that one spot.
You know what really chaps my cheeks? This wasn’t self-inflicted or the result of something fun and heedless, like bungee jumping. No, it was housework, the dullest activity there is. Sleeping is more fraught with perils — sleepwalking springs to mind and rolling out of bed, particularly from the top bunk.
The moral of the story? Remain alert, boys and girls, many grave dangers aren’t clearly marked.