I have become a statistic. Well, kind of, sort of a statistic. Maybe more like one of the masses because I don’t think any specific statistics came into play.
Back in January, I wrote about a Washington Post article that delved into the subject of the increasingly common occurrence of broken toes during the pandemic (I don’t think any specific stats were cited and I’m not a math teacher, but I imagine that the number of such toes would have lots of zeroes after it).
This was due to more people at home more often, walking around barefoot or shoeless with more obstructions in the way because of extra furniture in the room — i.e., workstations for parents and children working virtually. In that same column, I noted that although I have been prone to being rather wicked with my toes over the years, I had managed to avoid any serious foot mishaps during the pandemic.
I did qualify my statement with the word “yet”: “I haven’t bashed any of my toes during the pandemic — yet,” I wrote.
Still, despite my careful avoidance of acting smug and superior, I spoke too soon.
Yes, my right big toe is a little unhappy with me at the moment.
And I can say that the feeling is mutual. I mean, shouldn’t my toe take a little responsibility for itself and avoid some of the disastrous situations that always seem to loom in its way?
In this case, a quilt was spread over the area rug in our living room because my grandchild was coming to visit the next day and she tends to spit up a lot some days.
I was running around doing chores, and my toe happened to get caught in a hole formed by the separation of part of the bias tape on the end seam. I had too much forward momentum to stop, and I couldn’t pull my toe out in time — so what ended up happening is that my toe slammed straight down into the floor with a great deal of force. I’m not a physics teacher, but I imagine that a lot of newtons were at work in that moment.
A lot of energy also was exerted in trying not to scream, as my husband was already asleep at the time.
It’s been about a week now, and I can report quite happily that my big toe is healing way faster than my other toes that have in the past been involved in catastrophic meetings with parts of my house or the furnishings in it. I think I somehow managed to avoid breaking my toe and merely jammed it or sprained it.
Unfortunately, because I was babying the toe and limping along to avoid putting pressure on it — and wearing one of my husband’s too-big-for-me boots because I could not get mine on due to the swelling and pain — I somehow put stress on my back and have been suffering from a pinched nerve. The only good thing about that is that made me forget about my toe, at least for a while.
I am finally feeling a little less like I’m 110 years old and am now able to stand upright after I rise from a chair and have started to walk reasonably well. (Apologies to any 110-year-olds out there, who probably get around way better than I have for the past few days.)
But toe issues stemming from COVID-19 are old news. The latest news I’ve read is that hair loss is associated with the pandemic.
Nope. No way. Not going there. No comment.
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