Me: How do you know if you’ve broken your toe?
Mimi: It’s excruciating. You. Know. If. You’ve. Broken. Your. Toe.
Me: It hurts, but I wouldn’t call it excruciating.
Mimi: You haven’t broken it then. Or either the couple of glasses of wine you’ve had have dulled the pain.
When Mimi makes digs about my wine consumption, I ignore her. She’s just jealous that her constitution isn’t as strong as mine.
We have a rule at Maison Bean. Before you come in the door, you must sign a waiver relinquishing your rights in the event of an injury or an illness incurred on the premises. This was a preemptive measure I instituted as a new mother when it dawned on me the unusual hazard my two young offspring presented.
By nature they spew contagions and leave little germy toys scattered about. Add to that two geriatric hounds whose naps constitute pedestrian obstacles, and, voila, you’ll find an ambulance-chasing TV lawyer drumming up his personal injury caseload on your doorstep.
After our guests have signed the waiver, we teach them the Bean Shuffle. The Bean Shuffle is a slow, but safe, means of walking whereby you walk without lifting your feet from the floor–you shuffle. It’s safe and prevents you from tripping…. It can be done in the dark, and it’s 100 percent foolproof.
The problem on Thursday night was that fortified by a mere glass of chardonnay and with no accidents to remind me to be careful, I got careless and went bounding through the living room in the dark where I encountered an errant ottoman. It was dark. I felt like I’d rammed my foot into a brick wall. I hopped up and down muttering obscenities.
It hurt, but it was far from giving birth. With no sympathy from Mimi and Papa (Papa was nursing his own wounds), I took a handful of ibuprofen, went to bed and forgot about it temporarily.
When Friday morning arrived, I began to think that there might actually be some merit to Mimi’s wine-dulling-the-pain barb. My toe hurt, and I was walking like Fred Sanford.
I took another handful of ibuprofen and called the orthopedic surgeon’s office at the university hospital. The orthopedic surgeon’s office was not impressed with my emergency and advised me to go to Urgent Care.
Whilst I ruminated, I drove… not to Urgent Care… to the Nail Palace where I got a *gentle* pedicure.
Thus presentable, I drove myself to Urgent Care. Urgent Care took an x-ray, appropriately ooohed and ahhed over my poor–but pedicured–toe, gave me a hideous boot to wear and a lovely prescription for pain and sent me on my way home–all for $16.
Notwithstanding the garish boot, it was a pleasant experience. But it was actually back home at Maison Bean that I found unexpected sympathy.
On seeing my orthopedic boot, Moose, my little doctor in the making, crouched down, examined my foot carefully before proffering a tender little Moose kiss on top of my poor injured toe.