Today’s tale is one of immeasurably poor timing and astounding gracelessness. In this scenario, I am about eight-years-old. I’m walking barefoot with my little brother, who is around six.
I can’t tell you where we’d been or what we’d been doing, but I can tell you that we lived in a duplex that was next to an open lot and that’s where we were headed. I figure we went to the corner store to pick up milk. The grass was overgrown, dancing in the spring breeze.
This is a good shortcut, I thought to myself.
Well… I was wrong.
About halfway into the field, I felt an exhausting amount of pain tear through my foot.
And the blood… my goodness, there was a massive amount of blood. It was nearly impossible to see that I had sliced my big toe open on broken glass.
I screamed at my brother to go and get help like I was dying and only had minutes to live. (Because I’m eight-years-old and truly think that I am).
The next thing I remember is when I’m in the hospital getting my toe stitched up and laughing because I’m a ticklish child. It’s a chunk of childhood trauma that I chose to block out for some reason.
Yeah, I remember the glass shooting into my toe just fine, though.
Here’s the sad part. About three months later, I was swimming in someone’s inground pool. The adults were having their fun, whatever. No big deal.
Until my foot got into a fight with the pool drain–and the drain won. I sliced open the very same toe that day if you can believe it.
If not, oh well, that’s what happened.
Luckily for me, I had built up some scar tissue so there wasn’t as much blood and not as many stitches.
Note to self: wear shoes outside and flippers in the pool.
A Clumsy Writer