Tic Whack Toe

Let’s pretend I whacked my toe on purpose. I didn’t, but I’m trying to salvage some dignity here.

Don’t roll your eyes at me unless you have never in your entire life tried to hide the fact that you almost tripped, or hit your funny bone, or butt-dialed the worst possible person on your contacts list.

By comparison, whacking my toe against an unsuspecting piece of furniture is nothing. Anyhow, this isn’t about that. It’s about hypochondria. Unless styles have changed in the last month or so, nobody wants to look like a hypochondriac.

Now I admit to having canine-hypochondria. I listed that as the reason for Jonah’s vet appointment next week. (Okay, okay, it was Robert’s suggestion, but I passed it on in good faith.)

But I don’t want to have me-hypochondria. Thus when I hit my toe and it really hurt, I was in a quandary. It was only a toe, and it wasn’t broken. I’ve set my own broken toe before, so I know what that feels like. Also my nose, but that’s another story.

This wasn’t even an injury, per se. It was more of a booboo. It did hurt though, more than I thought it ought to, all things considered. Had I suddenly become a hypochondriac? It was just a stubbed toe. Why the whining?

Then the little piggy in question turned a lovely shade of indigo.

PHEW!

The clouds parted and the birds sang “Shiny Happy People”.

You know the saying “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you”, well, it’s not hypochondria if there’s a grotesquely ugly bruise.

Sometimes all you really need is proof that you’re not going crazy, that whatever you thought had happened, really did happen. This bruise is my proof. I’m good now.

And with a knick knack purple-toe whack, this ole gal is getting on with her day. Y'all have a nice one.