Limpy

I’m having one of those “I need a vacation” days, full of consistent chaos. For starters, I’m walking around on a swollen big toe, and it’s Monday.

Thankfully, I’ll soon be embarking on a vacation, toe and all. Matt and I are going skiing next week with his family; ironically, as I gathered ski pants and mittens from high places around the apartment last night, I somehow managed to break a blood vessel in my big (now huge) toe. Yeah, that’s exactly one week before I’ll be riding the mountains. Egad.

I’m wearing my running shoes today (not with a skirt and pantyhose, like so many fashionably-challenged women do), and as I limped outside to start my vehicle this morning, I discovered that I’d left the dome light on and my battery was dead.

Matt said, “To the rescue!” but we couldn’t find his jumper cables (probably packed with my long underwear), so I called my old friends at AAA. Matt felt badly leaving me to fend for myself, but I’m a big girl, and a master at problem solving. Still, it’s nice being worried about, even if your mantra retains an “independent streak.”

My friend Darryn says, “You’re independent to a fault,” but is there such a thing? I have no desire to ever be tied to a railroad track waiting for someone to rescue me, and if my nail breaks it stays broken until it grows back.

I was raised to be independent and I very much like alone time. I grew up swimming until my hair turned green; taking all kinds of dance/gymnastic lessons; reading for hours on my bed; writing in journals; riding horses; taking long walks in the woods where I would 1). Hunt for mushrooms, or 2). Stare at trees; drowning Barbie in her pool (kidding, I never held her under that long); and I started making my own doctor's appointments circa 7th grade.

And what do I have to show for it? Apparently, a puffy, purple toe.

Happy Monday.