Sunday started out relatively commonplace. The beauty and warmth and sun of Saturday gave way to the overcast and rain that has become this summer’s norm. I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed on the promise of a lovely Sunday afternoon nap (like no other nap out there). Ate a little breakfast, got ready, visited the Presbyterian church (walking distance!), came home, made a little lunch. Then my landlord came by to see about switching out kitchen tables. See, everything seems so bo-ring, doesn’t it. I changed clothes and changed shoes, when I noticed my foot hurt. More specifically the top of my foot. I looked down and noticed a slight bruise. When I touched it however–oh sweet mercy–that was more than a bump–a veritable protrusion. I stood perfectly still in my room for a long time replaying my morning wondering when I had run into what? Or what did I drop on my foot. Because it is within al probability that I had done one (or both!) of those two things and Not Thought Twice. I run into tables. I drop things. But what could I have done to my foot to cause what looked like it was trying to be a sixth toe, and not even remembered? It remains a mystery.
I mostly forgot about it, assuming it was just normal everyday ungracefulness. Then I had the idea! What if it is some sort of bite. And of course I googled. Do Not google Spider Bite. Just don’t do it. Okay do it. Gross. So there I am, Sunday evening, the end of a quiet weekend alone in my apartment. And in a matter of minutes and a handful of images I am convinced that I have a deadly spider bite, which is clearly going to become infected, fester, and lead to certain amputation. And all before my excelled PA State healthcare plan kicks in. Great.
My dad very calmly (a little too calmly if you ask me. Isn’t he concerned about having a daughter with only one foot!?) suggests that I put some ice on it and some rubbing alcohol. Well I don’t have any rubbing alcohol. But! I have gin! And that has alcohol in it! So I put a little Beefeater on a cotton ball, cover the Source of Death, and go to bed.
I wake up this morning, the bruise is better, the protrusion is much less, well, protruding. All thanks to the gin, obviously.
Oh, and I never got that nap.