Demoing a pair of 36in peg stilts, custom made by the good folks over at http://www.thespinsterz.com/
It’s been 10 years since I’ve stilt-walked, so the first few steps were treacherous as I clung to my zombiecusher, a pair of kneepads the only thing between me and the distant pavement. My internal gyroscope was working good this morning, and I was gallivanting about the parking lot in no-time:
LongerRoad mascot and occasional guest-poster, Jaeda, went under the knife yesterday to have a fatty (lipoma) tumor removed from her belly. It was about the size of a gooey softball, underneath a muscle where it was hard to get at.
Surgery was a success and she’s home resting, a bit tired but seemingly happy. She’s also sporting a spandex compression vest to keep everything tight. Quite stylish, I might add 🙂
Alas, just after two full weeks, my gnarled toe has finally shed its proverbial fleece.
Also…I promise to not post any more photos of my anatomy. I think this is a commitment that anyone would agree with.
Aaaand, here’s a random picture of my toe, a good week or so after the ‘incident’. The nail is totally going to be falling off soon. Figure I should scare away all you squeamish blog followers in one fell swooping post.
Yeesh, so I was walking…well, more like trotting…into the kitchen yesterday, and somehow caught my tiniest of toes on the corner baseboard trim. After the wave of searing pain and string of profanities subsided, the wife decided to wander on in to see what all the commotion was.
“I think it’s broken, I heard cracking,” I said between clenched teeth.
“Uh-huh,” she replied casually, used to my shenanigans and ploys for attention; the countless cries of ‘wolf!’ that I deliver on a regular basis. A single tear rolled down my contorted face as I hopped around on one foot. This had little effect on this woman, jaded from my procession of past dramatic performances, where the slightest hint of a bruise or scrape was my only ‘proof’ of actual harm.
“I’m serious!” I wailed, but this only galvanized her assurance that I was milking the situation.
“I think I need suturing,” I then muttered, unleashing my most pathetic and dejected expression, something that could be described as a combination of puppydog eyes and vacant mouthbreathing. Her response to this, predictably, was to burst out laughing and resume whatever task that brought her there to the kitchen in the first place. To her, it was just another of my exaggerated eccentricities…and while she does enjoy them at times…I was basically a street performer. She got her chuckle from it, I got whatever ten seconds of attention that I needed, and we were now free to go our separate ways.
Of course the reason I’m telling this tale – as you maybe guessed – is that my foot actually did hurt. It hurt really, really bad.
“I feel blood,” I muttered, staying in character. I don’t recall her replying or even giving me a glance when I said this. She was already grabbing a glass of water, having wiped her hands of my nonsense. I can’t blame her, I pull this sort of mercy plea fairly often. “It’s pooling up in my sock, I can feel it,” I pleaded.
She chuckled a bit, afterall I was now taking this beyond the normal attention span for such performances. “It’s soupy, I just know it. I think…I think I need suturing.”
After another moment of hopping, I tried to put some weight on it and wailed in pain. She had turned her justifiably skeptical attention back to me and finally gave in. “Alright, take your sock off then.”
We hobbled to my office, and I collapsed into the chair, putting my leg up on a small table that she cleared off. She was probably already planning the emasculating remarks in her head, for when my foot looked healthy and intact.
“Ow ow ow!” I bleated, as she tried pulling the fuzzy sock off.
“Oh come on! I haven’t even- OH GOD!” she exclaimed, taking half a step back. Sure enough, there was blood everywhere. My little toe was a gory mess, and the nail (and some of the surrounding meat) was just hanging there. A trickle of red ran down my foot. The inside of the sock was soggy. Alas, my foot was as gnarly as she could imagine or I could hope.
That’s basically it, end of the story. She sutured it up with gauze and provided sage medical advice for me to ignore. I was of course grateful to be made whole by my soulmate. That outcome aside, I don’t think this story really has a message or a theme, or a lesson gleaned from it. I think we each got something out of the experience though. To her, perhaps I learned a lesson on the whole ‘crying wolf’ thing; that my eccentric attention-seeking antics finally caught up to me, that I won’t exaggerate next time. To me though…well, probably the opposite. I now have precedence! Stubbed toe or sickness, papercut or sniffle. An actual potential injury to bank on!