And the reason is that, as I removed a big monster knife from the dish drainer, it jumped out of my hand and stabbed the top of my foot. I’m telling you the truth. And please remember, the truth is always more stupid than fiction.
So anyway, yeah, the knife flew through the air and almost severed my big toe.
Plus the pain was made 35 times more awful by the fact that my toe was already fat and filled with an arthritic ache.
So there I was, hopping around on my good foot while the puncture wound bled all over the kitchen floor. Of course, I took a picture of it and posted it on Facebook.
Slowly, my readers are realizing that I really am a big moron. Yes, I do live in a constant tornado of ridiculous little dramas.
Anyway, after I cleaned up the bloody mess and slapped a Band-aid on my toe, I carefully surveyed all of my injuries for the week. One splinter in a finger on my left hand, from the porch railing. Two splinters in the ring finger on my right hand, from trying to remove a sand spur from the bottom of my foot. A sore spot on my cheek from falling splat-faced into the door when the pocket of my housecoat got hung on the chair arm. And a knot on my head from nearly knocking myself unconscious in the shower.
No one in their right mind describes me as graceful. At least not with a straight face. And even though I try to stay on track, I constantly lose things, ruin things, hurt myself and cause huge messes.
But my biggest problem is falling down.
Now that we’re on the subject, allow me to share with you the worst two falls of my lifetime.
The first one occurred a few years ago when I exited the house in my flannel gown and a too-big pair of snow boots to walk slowly down the incline to the mailbox. As my legs flew out from under me, one boot went flying off. As I went down like a dead body, I realized the concrete driveway was a sheet of ice. I could not stop myself from skidding on down the driveway. Every few inches, my gown rolled up like a window blind. By the time I got to the mailbox, the gown got to my rib cage. And let me just add right here that my bare butt was kissing the ice.
The second fall occurred in a quiet banquet hall. Thank goodness there were no witnesses as I somehow lost my footing and flew under one of the tables – on my back – in my best dress and with the wind knocked out of my lungs. Who knows how in the world this happened, but several strands of my hair were stuck to one of the table legs. I practically yanked a bald spot on top of my head, trying to set my hair free from the sticky table leg. When I stood up I discovered a big rip in my black hose. A rip from the back of my leg to half of my knee – in the shape of Texas.
Yes, it takes nerves of steel to be me
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.