She Bangs, She Bangs

The other evening in an effort to not let strawberry jello fall to the floor thus making a mess, I leaped forward to the sink whereby my second toe slammed into the child’s gate. This gate that protects Owen and Maggie from certain kitchen death often leads me to swift pain in the form of a stub. “Fuck! FUCK!!! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mutherfucking FUUCCCKKKKK.” I feel to the floor in a heap, clutching my foot and crying. I don’t normally cry after injury, I cuss like a sailor and then shake it off. This is something I usually tell Owen and Maggie when hurt, “Shake it off.” (Not swear). Owen usually responds with his ass shimmying; Maggie, her hands. But there I lay on the floor, my toe again the victim of a viscous stub. The pain was so bad that I could not uncover my hand at fear of what I might see. And when I did, it was bad, a bruise already forming and skin dangling. Thankfully, it was not the toe-decapitation imagined. My toes, if you have not been privy to see, are a tad long. My 2nd and 3rd in line are longer than my big toe. This is a trait from my mother that luckily has not been passed to my children. For years, I have suspected this was the source of my totally clumsiness. My big toe in its diminutive state is incapable of providing the stability necessary to a support body. I submit to you, Evidence A - my toes (pardon the state of my feet - I run and could care less about pedicures).


As you can see by the above photo, my big toe is woefully deficient. It should be at least an inch longer. Thankfully, it is not. Because that would mean size 11 shoes, and have you seen size 11 shoes? Neither have I, maybe once on a carnival clown. Although my big toe is awful in its ability to keep me from toe banging excruciating pain, it is thoughtful enough in its small stature to provide me with an assortment of shoes that do no scream circus. Thank you, big toe.