Today, so far I’ve: 1) jammed my little toe on that sneaky, hard maple dresser in the guest room in the darkest of the wee hours; 2) lost my footing on those wicked stairs down into the garage; and 3) had my forehead whacked by the edge of the evil washing machine lid.
I think I may have broken the toe. It’s quite sore, swollen and a blue around the base. But there’s nothing you can do about a broken toe. You can’t put a cast on it. And my little toe is so little I don’t think taping it to the uninjured toe next to it would do much good. So I’ve been icing it and trying to keep my weight off it when I walk. It makes for an interesting gait.
I was taking some recycling stuff to the bin in the garage. There are five steps down. Somehow, I mis-stepped on the second one, started to fall, grabbed the two-by-four banister and managed to stay on my feet as I slid/hopped down the other three steps to the floor. I twisted my back and my left hand is yelling at me for the unexpectedly heavy use. Lesson? Pay more attention on staircases.
There’s a sore, throbby knot just above my right eyebrow. That evil washer lid fell forward out of the blue just as I was leaning down and reaching into the tub for a single wet sock, one I’d missed while loading the drier. OWW!
It’s only 1:30 in the afternoon. I’m almost afraid to move—and there’s nearly a whole day and evening ahead, hours and hours during which I might unexpectedly add more mishaps to the running list. And my middle name has always, always been Grace.
Listen, Halloween spirits: We have treats to hand out liberally when the time comes tonight, so please, no more tricks? Take it easy on me.
Now, I think I’ll go make myself a cup of decaf. I promise to be extra careful with the boiling water.