I got home from work last night and stubbed the heck out of my toe.
Of course, I didn’t say "heck." I said a lot of words which were very, very unprintable. I think that’s probably the most cursing that apartment has seen in a single five-minute period, ever. It certainly is since I’ve lived there, and I’m pretty sure the nice couple who lived there before me weren’t big on the cursing.
I haven’t stubbed my toe that hard in a very long time and for about five minutes (five minutes heavily punctuated with Words My Mother Does Not Want Me to Say) I was afraid I might have broken it. Since there’s not much you can do when you have a broken toe, other than put ice on it, lash it to the next toe over to keep it straight while it heals and take some anti-inflammatories to keep the toe from swelling to the size of a pumpkin, I wasn’t excessively worried about it.
Today, though, I put on my favorite pair of shoes, stood up, and said "Ouch." There was a brief moment of confusion as to why standing up felt like someone squeezing my toes with a pliers, and then I remembered being so clumsy I ran my foot into a wall. I mean, it’s not like the wall hadn’t been there the day before.
I took off my favorite shoes and put on a pair of flats. It might be a few days before I can wear pretty shoes again, but on the bright side, I did not break my toe.
I just hit it hard enough to turn it a virulent shade of purple.