This will not be retrospective of the last almost 2 years.
Nor will it be a grand announcement (though it would have been nice).
No, friends. Instead, I have something else very special for my 500th post on this blog.
(and it's not even how I chose such a seemingly random name as Cotton Socks - though, dare to dream, maybe someday.)
This Very Special Edition of my blog is something else entirely. Something far, far more appropriate, which just happened last night. To be honest, I sort of did want to wait a day or two to post in hopes of being able to post a bfp, but then I decided it was too much pressure and that would naturally doom it to either a bfn or a hideously public miscarriage or something, and having been there done that, er no thanks.
Anyway, I searched for another topic and then this happened, and even as I lay there writhing on the floor (oh, yes, friends, there is writhing involved), I knew it was perfect. Nothing else would encapsulate me quite so well, and well, my humiliation should at least be humorous for someone else.
So without further ado - here is the story of My Almost-Broken Toe. The big one on the left foot, to be precise.
It began last night, about a quarter 'til 7. The Amazing Race was coming on soon, and I was vaguely hungry and more nauseated. DH was planning to give the dog a bath, but Jonah, smart boy that he is, cottoned on to the idea when the towels and shampoo appeared and his collar disappeared and was disinclined to participate, thanks.
I, deciding to be helpful instead of sitting on my lazy ass for once, thought of a brilliant plan.
'Self,' I said, 'Get up, pick up the dog and take him to DH. Then Jojo won't stink, DH will be happy and you can sit in the chair for the Race.'
It was, if I do say so myself, an excellent plan.
The problem wasn't in planning so much as execution.
I was sitting on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, fooling around on the laptop, cross-legged. I was wearing a pair of pajama pants (brown! soft! with cream colored detailing stitch! and sewn on patch pockets!) that are a little long, but who cares, because I wear them around the house, not to work.
(Can you see what's happened yet? No? Read on.)
Now, if you've read here for awhile, you may have noticed I am not the most graceful person in the world. In fact, I have all the grace of a stomping elephant, with the balance of . . . something with not great balance.
In plain English, I fall down a lot.
I fall down when I'm just standing still. I once did that in front of a group of colleagues. One moment, I'm standing there nodding, the next, I'm sprawled on the floor, laughing, because to me, it was funny. (they thought I was having some kind of fit or seizure.) And I'm sure you remember that time I was pregnant with Chickadee and I simply fell down in the shower and kicked a giant hole in my tub? And my ass was bruised like a map of the Agaean Sea? Yeah. Point made?
So, grace and me - we don't work together. And that was certainly in evidence last night.
Because while the plan was to get up and go get the dog, what happened is that when I tried to stand up, I somehow got my left foot tangled in my right pants leg (sitting cross-legged, remember)? And eventually only my big toe was hooked, but it was hooked good.
And rather than stand up, I sort of fell sideways, and in the middle of that, I managed to yank my right leg really hard (I think I was trying to avoid falling on the corner of the coffee table), and it pulled my toe really hard and it hit the ground somewhere and I was sprawled on the ground.
Jonah, being a thoughtful sort of dog (and me, keening and wailing because that shit hurt) comes over and licks my face solicitously, which is about when DH reappears. He sees me sobbing on the floor, sees the dog and assumes they are related. I disabuse him of that notion through a series of moans and head shaking.
He comes over and the swelling has already begun, as has the bruising and I can't move it at first. Now look. I've established already that I've done shit like this before, and my husband has certainly (patiently) told me time and time again that my toes are not actually broken. This time he says, "Damn, you may have broken it. And you're bleeding."
That brought back my power of speech as I screech, "BLEEDING?! WHAT THE HELL?" As best I can guess, I broke my nail during the fall. I'm not one to get faint at blood - I usually watch my blood draws - but already being queasy and in pain (it hurt BAD), I nearly threw up when I saw the blood and it's been bandaged since, so I'm not actually entirely sure what happened.
DH manipulates the toe and it is moving some, but not bending. He says he doesn't think it's broken, and that I just can't bend it due to swelling. He also points out that there is nothing we can do about it, but he supposes if I really want, we could go to the hospital, though they won't do anything either. I look at him horrified. I haven't showered yet, and I'm not wearing underwear.
(what? I hadn't showered! why waste clean underwear on a dirty body? I was going to shower after the Race, because I was planning to shave and do a deep conditioning. I would have done it earlier in the day, but I opted for a long nap instead. I wasn't going anywhere, anyway.)
He reiterates that he doesn't think the hospital is necessary, so to calm down. He goes to get some ice (which totally shatters my nerves, because he starts breaking it up with a freaking hammer), and the ice hurts too much. He can't get it where it needs to go without setting it on the toe, which isn't bearing weight well.
So, being the giant baby I am, I sniffle and moan some more.
And beg him to help me shower, because I don't want to put all my weight on it and I am terrified of falling in the shower. So he washed my hair for me and I slept with it wet, so it resembles a rat's nest today.
My poor toe (and the one next to it) are blue today, but they bend! So it's not dislocated or broken, but it still hurts like a MTHFR.
And that, friends, is a perfect celebration of 500 posts. Cheers!