Toes are handy, but testy little devils. They tend to run into things and when they do, they, like hurt! I mean birthing a baby hurt (from what I’m told).
Margie has a habit of running into things and since I’ve known her, she’s banged her toes at least three times, letting out this godawful primal scream each time. All three times, she said the toe was broken.
Yesterday, I hit my “index” toe on the right foot on the bathtub as I was climbing in and I hopped around for about five minutes, moaning and cussing. For the first time I understood Margie’s pain and there was nobody here to sympathize (a “poor baby” would have helped).
The toe was, I concluded, broken. What else could it be. An hour after the crash, it was purple and I couldn’t move it. Broken. Yep. Absolutely.
This morning, it’s still purple and I still can’t move it, but I walk OK. I decided that my two exercise classes this morning would have to be foregone, but I’m looking at possibly taking a walk of a few miles later, just to see how the toe does.
As if the broken toe wasn’t enough, my main computer–the one with all my work on it–died yesterday and I had to run out and buy another one. Computers are like cars. You don’t just go on the lot and buy one. The dealer has to do stuff to it, so I won’t have it until, maybe, tomorrow. There’s another pain, caused by another break.
Today’s gotta be better.