April 12th, 2018

So this happened. 

​The funniest part is that I almost never go barefoot. Specifically because I'm clumsy and accident prone and I got tired of taping up broken toes. Eventually I accepted the fact that there are some people on this planet that should always wear shoes. And perhaps protective padding.  And maybe bumper guards.  I am one of them.

​But on this particular day it was raining.  Not just a little sprinkle either. It was a thunder rumbling, full orchestration, drumming downpour and we were happy to see it too.  The winter is our "dry" season where it rains very rarely and everything green gets a little cranky.  But the mailman had already been by and I saw that he stopped by our mailbox.  So I grabbed an umbrella and dashed out in my sandals, grabbed the mail and splashed my way back inside.  As soon as I stepped inside, I took off my sandals so that I wouldn't track wet leaves or pebbles or sand any further into the house, put the umbrella in the umbrella stand (there's a great invention by the way), the mail on the kitchen table and went on my merry way.

​My merry way led me back to the family room where I had already set up the ironing board, iron, pile of wrinkly clothes, spray bottle of water and hangers.  I suppose I could have stopped to put other shoes on but maybe I was feeling reckless.  I know the thought crossed my mind at one point that I should, but, I reasoned, and I remember thinking this,  "I know that my floor is clean, my feet won't get dirty."  That was the actual thought that ran through my head. Not, "Sam you know you are a klutz, put shoes on for heaven's sakes",   but a confidence that my floor is clean.   (Insert here much shaking of the head)

​I went about my ironing as I always do, with the TV on catching up on whatever show I had previously recorded but not seen. So it's a type of low-level multi tasking.  I'm thinking whatever random thoughts are running through my head at that moment (and there are a lot of them),  paying attention to the show (partly), focused on  the specific iron-y needs of whichever garment I am facing at that moment (mostly), placing it on a hanger, going to the bedroom to hang said item up and repeat.  Somewhere around the 3rd of fourth article of clothing as I stepped around to grab a hangar, eyes riveted to the TV screen (it was an exciting moment), one hand holding the shorts I just ironed, pain shot up my leg from my heel.  "What the heck?"

​I hung the shorts up anyway (not going to risk a wrinkle and have to iron them again!) and then perched the hanger off the end of the ironing board.  Now hands free, I pretzeled myself so that I could look at the bottom of my foot. I couldn't make out what exactly the culprit was but with my fingers I could feel something hard and sharp sticking out of the heel. Something had been lurking in the rug that was now 3/4 imbedded in my foot.  Ratz!

​So I limped into the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood behind me to clean up later and then once seated and armed with bandaids, hydrogen peroxide and antibiotic cream realized that I could not see what I was doing. My foot was too close.  So I had to limp back out, grab a pair of my reading glasses and return, making a mental note of yet another blood trail to clean.  Ahhh, better, now I could see what I was doing.  But the mystery sharp thing was too slippery to grab with my fingers.  Time to rummage around for tweezers.  Tweezers, by the way, are sharp little beggars on their own.  I probably did as much damage prodding and probing with those tweezers and trying to remove the sharp thing, as the sharp thing did on it's own!  But at long last, with much muttered swearing under my breath, the sharp thing (which turned out to be a bit of hard plastic packaging) was removed, the foot was cleaned and bandaged and the cleaning could commence.

​Eventually of course, the floors were clean, the bathroom practically sterilized (I made that big a mess that it was required) and both a sock and a shoe were now protecting both feet. Ironing resumed and all was well though I did limp a bit for the past few days.  And bandaids, by the way, do not stay very well on the bottoms of a persons feet, as it so happens.  Just a little FYI there.

​And then last night, as I was almost ready to serve dinner, I reached up into the pantry for a platter and somehow I fumbled it.  Smashola!  Platter bits scattered from the utility room door across the kitchen floor to the table.  (insert much sighing here)  Dang.  I picked up all the big pieces and then swept the floor multiple times making certain that there were no fragments, not even the teeniest tiniest littlest smidgeon of broken crockery on the floor.  And then this morning, as I walked through the kitchen, I heard a distinct crunch as I stepped.  Lifting my foot what did I find?  Yet another piece of that broken platter!  Where had it been hiding?  What the heck?  Now I'm sabotaging myself?  Some days I just cannot win.

​Well anyway, the lesson has been reinforced.  I'm back to wearing some sort of shoe or sandal or slipper at all times because clearly, I am that person who is a danger to herself.  Or at least to my feet.