I have a bit of a head cold shared with me by Hick and his breather. The resulting headache and sinus pain has made me a bit woozy and unsteady on my feet. Kind of like a happy drunk, but without the fun, and without the alcohol.
This afternoon I entered the master bathroom to change clothes for The Pony's spring band concert. Hick and I have a big walk-in closet in the john. As I turned to enter, a wave of vertigo struck me clumsy. A step with my right foot that I had planned to put into the closet instead struck the inward-opening door. Precisely, that inch of wood from which the door is made, hung between two hinges. My pinky-toe bent in an unnatural angle. A ninety-degree angle, for the geometry scholars and carpenters among you.
You know how, when you hit your extremities on something, the length of your axons (some as long as three feet!) means that you know you're hurt, but you don't feel it for a second or two? It was like that. I knew Pinky had swiveled too far. But I couldn't look. Besides, I was not in any position to look. I was cartwheeling between the hanging clothes, blouses to the left of me, work pants to the right, and there I was stuck in the middle with a view. Of the gray metal circuit-breaker box, that is. Or service entrance, as Hick the facility maintenance supervisor refers to it. Whatever its nomenclature, it was rushing towards my head until I stuck out my right arm and stopped that wall from closing in.
Then the pain arrived. Kind of sharp. I still couldn't look. What good would THAT do? Nothing can be done for a broken pinky-toe except for taping it to the piggy that had no roast beef. Who is probably already bitter about the roast beef snubbing. Anyway, I don't think Pinky has enough bone in her to break. She's one of those freaky deaky pinky-toes that is all triangular and meaty and pudgy, with an itty bitty crescent nail. The kind of pinky-toe that sort of turns under the next toe when you walk. Not a pretty little pinky-toe, all manicured and painted up like a hussy, begging to expose herself in flip-flops and fancy sandals.
Pinky ached all through the concert. Quietly, because, while not pretty, she does have class. The sides of the shoe were constricting her like a boa around a bunny. But she maintained. That little toe jammed along with the music, throbbing to beat the band.
I am thankful that Pinky did not pop off. That would have been as bad as a street sweeper running over her, and having some hipster doofus pick her up, plop her in a Cracker Jack box full of ice, hijack a bus, and drive me to the emergency room, while making all the stops.
I may gather enough courage to take a peek tomorrow morning. At least it took my mind off my cold.