A few weeks ago, I was at Saratoga Springs when I said, “I think I need to sit down.” People close to me react to this statement with alarm. It usually means I am:
about to faint
having an asthma attack
hurt myself many hours ago and didn’t say anything
In this case, we were at Saratoga Springs, at the racetrack, where many horses abound, so excusing myself to a horseless locality was met with grave concern. What had happened was that I – sometime after changing from my cute, photo-only heels into my cute, walkable flats – whacked my right foot really hard against a concrete step.
And I sort of, uh, mangled my baby toe a little?
I didn’t say anything at first because my primary directive is to always choose pretty over practical. In most scenarios, I choose the least-painful adorable footwear I can get away with, and hope I do not get blisters until the end of the day. When I know I’ll be doing a lot of walking, I try to bring a backup pair of shoes that I know are comfy, just in case. I even did that at Saratoga! But then, somehow, at some point, I banged my foot against a very hard surface, and within minutes, my right foot was throbbing with pain. I felt a searing sensation along the outer edge of my toe, and a prickly sting as my foot swelled.
Still, I played it cool. I said I needed to sit for a little bit, and then I sat for the remainder of the day, hobbling out to the car in the evening, where I changed into flip-flops. When I slid off my ergonomic Mary Janes, the pinky toe on my right foot was swollen, crooked, and blood-blistered. I touched it. It felt like a water balloon full of pudding and loose teeth.
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