Friends Shouldn’t Let Friends Play Frisbee

So last weekend the BF's sister officially hit her 30s. So the family threw her a big shindig out at the homestead complete with a keg of beer. Well, OK, it was a half keg — we're not in college anymore after all. But despite our best efforts, the 106-degree weather, and lots of salty snacks and stuffed jalapeno peppers, the 12 or so people tasked with the duty still were not able to drain the keg of its 7-1/2 gallons of beer.

So it was that the next day the BF and I, along with his newly-30-year-old sister and her hubby, traveled back to the family home to help their parents empty the keg. It's just poor form to return a keg with any beer left in it.

So there I am in the middle of the afternoon, in my swim suit and my bare feet with my frosty mug. Never mind that the keg gave its final cough and sputter upon pouring my first mug and the BF and I had to resort to the canned stuff, this story is about my toe — and apparently every paragraph is going to begin with …

So the BF's parents have a new puppy, and the new puppy wants to play with our dogs, and our dogs like to play frisbee. Actually, our dogs like to EAT frisbees. Which is why playing frisbee with our dogs is such great exercise.

So the frisbee goes over my head, and the dogs race past me after it. I get scolded for letting the dogs have the frisbee: I didn't even TRY to get it. (Hello! It went OVER my head!)

So the next time the frisbee whizzes overhead I make a decision to run for it. In my swimsuit, in my bare feet. I put the mug down. So I'm running and the dogs are running and when everything stopped spinning and I was pretty sure the ride had come to a full and complete stop except for the little chirping birds and stars that were still circling my head, I told everyone who asked that I was pretty sure I was OK. I just wasn't sure why my toe hurt.

I was, and still am, pretty sure that the largest of the dogs had outrun me, and in doing so, had come up behind me, knocked my against the back of my knees thus taking my feet out from under me. Then, in my mind's re-enactment, I must have had my legs and feet fully extended out in front of me so I was riding the dog side-saddle for a bit. But the dog was moving under me faster than I was moving over him, so he kept running, leaving me to fall on my butt. With my legs and feet still extended out in front of me and with inertia still pulling me along for another 2 feet. So I just could not — and still can't — figure out exactly how I managed to hurt my toe. But immediately upon coming to a stop I noticed my toe hurt. Then I noticed it was bleeding at the cuticle. An hour later I noticed it had turned a nice purple color. The next day — when I took this picture — my co-workers voted unanimously that it was broken.

I don't think it's broken. It's been almost a week now and it's a little less purple and I can bend it some. But those toenails need to be re-done! And it's going to be a while before I can mess with them. Meanwhile, every time I pull my shoe off to show a client what an adventurous lifestyle I lead in my spare time — so as to justify never having my nails done — all anyone says is, "Oh! Those are GORGEOUS!"

I'm not saying my fancy gel paint tie-dye toe nails aren't the absolute BOMB, but how can someone look at that foot and NOT notice the dang toe?! I don't know whether I should be thrilled that my clients are so into my work or insulted by their lack of sympathy.