It Shoulda Looked Worse

Hi,

We're having a lovely 4th of July weekend. Went to a parade. Temps in the 70s. Saw so many fireworks around the bay, that we didn't even need to go to a public display. Other than breathing through a layer of my hoodie to alleviate my asthma symptoms from the smoke, which were also flaring due to the grass, weeds, trees, and mold, it was a blast. No pun intended. An absolute blast.

So today, I woke up at 8:30, worried that I wouldn't have time for my "quiet time" before the thundering herd bounded to the kitchen. I needn't have worried. History Boy didn't arise until 9:30, followed by Big at 10:30 and Drama Girl at 11ish. Needless to say, I had plenty of time to read the first million chapters of Joshua. I chose to go slowly, though. I read right till after God held back the river Jordan. It was great, though. Quiet time to read, to meditate, and to pray. All good.

Then, we headed to the local Farmers' Market, where we had the most beautiful, delightful, amazing quart of strawberries that $9.00 could buy. Additionally, we couldn't head out without buying some (well, 2 kinds, actually) Gouda, some apple cinnamon coffee cake, and some colon-blow-seed-sprouting bread. All good. Home we went, with feast in tow, happy as little clams.

Well, it had to end...the bliss and all. First, it was the weeding. After taking my allergy pill, I put on my big girl panties and cowboy hat and pulled weeds for 2 hours from the rocks in our driveway. Alas, even beach houses get weeds. Well, I accept that. Wasn't so bad, actually, because Big and I got to kneel, grunt and sweat side-by-side. Oh, get your mind out of the gutter...so mine can slide by. Weeding.

After weeding, we decided to take the kids to the beach. All of them. Knowing, that at least 2 would need baths after we returned because our beach has a mud field to cross before one arrives at Nirvana. Okay, so we set off. Great time. A little mud. Not bad. Spent time just watching the furry kids run and play and yell "leave it!" whenever they tried to drink the water.
Enjoyed the human kids saying, "look at this!", and "Fort Stinky lives!" After all that fun, it was time to get home. After all, it had been nearly 4 hours since we had last eaten, and our bellies were fairly touching our backbones. I took Annie, the Golden Retriever, and leashed her back up, so we could cross the field of muck together. Except I was tired, so I thought I'd go the short way.

Right.

The short way consisted of me wading in mud up to my mid thigh, pulling on my poor, faithful dog for balance. The short way also consisted of my husband laughing from a sand bar, snorting enough to say, "Are you alright?", while our daughter looked for a piece of driftwood long enough to pull me to safety. Oh, I made it alright. And so did Annie. But we smelled of the vilest filth you ever smelled. Black, greasy, stinky, decomposing mud.

After that, the long way was just fine with me. I prefer to die when I'm oooooollld and in a lovely bed with someone holding my hand telling everyone how lovely I was, NOT by quicksand.

So after that, it was time to bathe the dogs and get dinner ready.

And then...sweet Jesus...I got to go to the store...alone. :) Which brings me to the point of this post. As I was carrying my groceries to my car, my little flip-flopped clad foot slipped between the lip of the sidewalk and the asphalt of the parking lot, and my toes were amputated right there and then in a sting of pain so mighty that I uttered a grunt. Not a scream, a cry or a whistle, but a sucking in air g.r.u.n.t. Meanwhile, I'm moving to get myself and my groceries into the van, desperately attempting to smile amidst the blood-curdling wail I held in my chest. Oh, the pain. The pain!

When I was fully seated in the van, I looked down to survey the damaged, amputated tootsies, and to see if I could stop the flow of blood. My eyes must've been deceiving me, as eyes often do, because all I saw were two little scrapes on top of my toes and some scratched off red toenail polish.

But I know the truth. They were amputated on the inside. I felt it. I still do.

I know, I know. The moral of the story is to wear sensible shoes. But, I'm not flylady. I just can't. Unfortunately, I've stubbed more toes and broken them more times than I care to count. Why, oh why are shoes the answer, and yet so NOT the answer??? Does anyone else eschew the good sense of sensible shoes?