The other day, when most of me came into the kitchen, my pinky toe stayed in the hallway for just a split second.
(Here, the word "split" is a terrible pun.)
There was a moment of the most blinding kind of pain, and I yelled to the empty kitchen, "RATS OUCH NO!" (Because I'm nothing if not completely eloquent in times of distress. Ask anyone.)
But kitchens are notoriously unsympathetic and I was greeted with stainless steel silence.
I looked down. In despair, I noticed that my littlest toe was now grossly separated from the rest of the pack and sticking straight out to the side. Like, if my foot was 'N Sync, that little pinky toe was Justin Timberlake. Solo.
I tried to wiggle it, just to see, which was a big stupid mistake.
I have to admit that I was a pretty big baby over it. Barclay came home to me laying on the couch with my foot on the coffee table making pitiful grimace-y faces. "It's broken," I said woefully. "It hurts more than anything, ever." Probably hyperbole.
But he humoured me, dutifully wrangling Justin into his rightful upright position and taping him to Lance Bass. (I'm pretty committed to this metaphor at this point.) Today, two days later, there is some sweet bruising going on, but I think the band is back together for the time being.
I just thought you'd want to know.