I’ve been away. Too much nothing to do.
I’ve failed miserably at my commitment to bore the internet with my life-musings. Perhaps I’ve bored myself. But mostly, I’ve been cranky.
First, there was work. Work. And more work. And of course, the commuting to work. But at least that meant reading. And reading means BOOKS!
Then there was the dream I had where I was singing Whitney Houston’s “One Moment in Time” at Bernie Sanders’ inauguration*. Except it wasn’t Whitney’s song, it was mine. And I was fabulous. Therefore, I had to spend all this time fantasizing about actually doing it. I listened to that song over and over and over and over and over again. Frankly, I’m not proud of the amount of time I spent doing that. Just think of all the Criminal Minds episodes I could have Netflixed in that time!
My broken toe, to be exact. How did it happen, exactly?
(This is the point in most blogs where the author goes into this tragicomedy of circumstance and freak-of-natureness that the blogiverse is really fond of.)
I was walking down the street when I saw a cyclist steal a woman’s phone as she walked down the street. Like any normal person, as the cyclist rode towards me, I dropped kicked the bike, knocked down the thief, and sat on him as we waited for the authorities. I sensed I injured my toe, so I rested and raised my foot on the thief’s face with a deep sense of justice.
Just as plausible:
The cutest story, really! My cats were sleeping in the cutest furball formation on the couch. I knew that would make a super awesome Instagram and Pinterest photo, so I had to climb the bookcase shelves, to get a bird’s eye view of the kitty tableau. As I did, my foot slid on the crossword pages I’d ripped out of New York magazine to do at another time. Then time seemed to go full-Matrix and I had to parkour my way off the shelf to avoid landing on my precious pussies. Needless to say, they awoke from slumber to find me crumpled up on the floor with my foot caught awkwardly in my mug of overnight oats.
My family, when they heard I broke my toe, had uniquely similar assumptions about how it went down:
Family Member: You broke your toe? How did that happen?!?!? Wait, don’t tell me, ‘We should see the other guy!’
Me: Not exactly…
Family Member: Oh, what, are the doctors still trying to remove your toe from his ass?
Me: [Shakes head]
None of this happened.
Just your run-of-the-mill-getting-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-during-a-rainstorm-to-close-the windows-but-the-floor’s-already-wet-so-you-slip-and-slam-your-foot-into-the-kitchen-stool-sort-of-thing.
I went back to bed, thinking I’ve just stubbed my toe. But then I woke up the next morning, and realized the pain didn’t go away. So, I decided to go to urgent care. Which went almost exactly like this:
Doctor: So, you stubbed your toe? And you were able to walk into the facility and into this room?
Me: This feels like more than a stubbed toe.
Doctor: Sure, if you think you want to check it out [crazy hypochondriac lady], we can do some x-rays.
I went down the hall to do the x-rays. And came back to the urgent care waiting room. Then he called me back in.
Doctor: So, your toe is broken…
Apparently, when you break the middle toe, there isn’t much that can be done. You tape it to its buddy and rest it as much as you can. It will be back to its regular, unremarkable self in a few weeks.
And that’s pretty much what’s been happening in my blogging absence…
* I’m not sure why it was Bernie. I doubt even his camp would take their chances on an unknown singer whose only credits are Jack’s Mother in two productions of “Into the Woods.” And drunken karaoke.
But who wouldn’t want to be able to do this?