toe

And here's what happens when you want to beat an old woman into the optometrist's: You open the door quickly, the heavy metal (ha!) door stubs your toe, and RIPS YOUR BIG TOENAIL RIGHT OFF OF YOUR TOE. Then, while your shoe is slowly filling with blood, you politely ask the front desk lady if she happens to have any bandages. "Oh no, sorry. We just ran out." Okay, thanks. Then you ask if you can skip your eye exam and just reorder a year's supply of contacts. "Sure! $89.93." You give her your debit card while your entire foot is on fire screaming at you, "AAAGGGHHH! GOOD LORD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!" She asks you if your phone number is still 785-5183. No, no it's not. Here is the current phone number. "Okay, we'll call you when they come in." "Thank you, have a good day," you say. Oh, what a polite lass you are, even while your shoe is full of blood and a detached toenail and an intense throbbing. Choose your own adventure! And today's adventure is a trip to InstaCare.

You cry in the lobby. Mostly because you feel soooo stuuuupid. So stupid. SO stupid. Really? A door did this? Not very rock and/or roll of you, Meg, is it? No, no it's not. And an older gent sitting across from you frequently looks up from his Bowhunting magazine to look at you. You are guessing it is because you look absolutely divine with drippy mascara tears, a bright red nose with shiny snot, and OH! don't forget about your blood-caked foot with your meaty, nailless toe. Correction: It is not nailless quite yet. Hangin' on for dear life, that toenail of yours! You've had some fun adventures together, this one being the funnest. I suppose it is "most fun," but funnest is funner. Choose your own adventure! And today's adventure is two big needles in the toe muscle(?) followed by a clip here and a clip there and a see ya in hell, toenail!

You cry again. Duh. You are Meg. Cryin' is your thing (followed by being polite while in crisis mode). You cry because suddenly your ability to walk, run, jump rope, and roundhouse kick is in serious jeopardy. I mean, you could look at this as an opportunity to be completely lazy and babied like the lazy baby you secretly are, but you don't look at it that way. You look at it as a complete catastrophe. Egads! You can't go to the gym compulsively and run obsessively! Shit! Balls! Shit balls! Gawddang, girl. You gonna get all Bonnie Grape on everyone's ass now (translation: you are going to get chubby wubby). Damn. Damn damn damn damn. You know you are ignoring science. You know how irrational you are being. You know a few days of inactivity aren't going to add 400 pounds onto your frame. You know this, man. So why so panicky? Why so devastated? Because you are addicted! You are 100,000,000% addicted to being active. You don't slow down ever. Not slowing down is what got you into this mess in the first place, remember? So now you are forced to slow down. Deep down you knew this was gonna happen. You knew you were going to be somehow set back so that you would have to sit back and see what is what. It is time for you to face everything. Look at what terrifies you. Make friends with it. Invite it over for dinner. And have a feast.

Food is the friend, not the foe. You have been your foe, too, for far too long. Thank god for the toe. It saved you from more than you will every know. Now stop rhyming.