I really need to start packing for my work trips earlier than, say, the morning I leave. This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if I had been on the ball, or so I tell myself. Now, that is…
My flights almost always leave at 10 am, and while I have been sprinting-through-the-airport-puke-on-my-shoes late more than once, I have been getting better. The earlier I set my alarm, the more time I have to check a few e-mails, pack and dress before it’s time to head for the airport.
Unless, as happened last week, my flight is scheduled to leave at NINE. (You may take it as read that I realized this only AFTER waking up, meandering downstairs, and casually looking over my itenerary while perusing e-mail.)
I sprinted back up the stairs at nine hundred miles an hour, and began to frantically pack, scuttling back and forth from the closet, dodging dogs, and trying not to wake up BD, who was peacefully snoozing in bed. The whole time my brain was running a dialogue something like this:
Black clothing! Yes! Into the suitcase! Wait, we hate that shirt! Back to the closet…yes! This black shirt is much better! Ooh, a WHITE shirt! Yes! Confuse everyone…pack a color besides black! Quick, back to the suit–OH SHIT!!
At this point, I stopped and lifted my right foot up. And there, lodged in to the ball of my foot at a jaunty angle, was a drill bit.
A. DRILL. BIT. (1/8″, if you’re wondering.)
There I was, not even dressed, clutching a shirt in one hand and a bloody be-drill-bitted foot in the other. I was amazed! The damn thing went in at an angle; there was about an INCH of drill bit in my foot. (You may wonder HOW a drill bit came to be on our bedroom floor, and the sad answer is that I’m LAZY. I brought it home weeks ago from one of my stores and it just ended up in a pile with all the other crap that comes out of my pockets at the end of the day. In my rush to get packed, I had bumped into the speaker that had all the pocket detritus on top, and the drill bit, being of the cylindrical persuasion, just rolled right off and onto the carpeting.)
Anyway, I stared at the drill bit for a second before I registered what happened.
It didn’t really begin to hurt until after I pulled it out, and that’s when I started whimpering, which woke up BD and sent him screaming down the hallway for towels and band-aids. He refused to let me stick my entire foot into the automatic ice maker in the freezer, even though I begged. He insisted we clean it up (which involved such stunts as hobble-to-the-sink and try-not-to-puke-and-faint-while-your-husband-scrubs-the-wound-and-dumps-half-a-bottle-of-peroxide-on-top) then I bandaged it, and limped out the door 20 minutes later, made my flight just fine, and spent the next few days trying to explain to everyone that yes, I’m an idiot and no, I don’t need a wheelchair.
One week later, and almost better, I headed to the high school to help out with the guard for the first time since last season.
If you’re wondering? One week later and almost better does NOT mean a person can spend a few hours prancing around the football field, choreographing flag work and dance phrases.
If anyone needs me, I’ll be over here with my foot in the freezer.