Growing Pains

I stabbed myself in the foot this morning. Literally. I was putting away the clean dishes and inadvertently let slip a kitchen knife from my hand. Not a big butcher knife or a little paring knife. Just your standard average-sized kitchen knife. It’s nothing I haven’t done before, but I’m usually quick enough and cognizant enough to move my foot out of the way. Not this time. My foot stayed put. I don’t know why. Maybe the synapses didn’t fire, telling my foot to move; maybe my foot just didn’t respond; maybe I misjudged, thinking the knife would miss and moving my foot would be unnecessary. Of course, it hurt. But it was more of a bruising pain. Glancing down and seeing the knife on the floor and no blood, I assumed that it had hit hilt-down. So I just picked up the knife and went on about my morning routine. Later I noticed, while taking a shower, a small blood-filled hole in the top of my foot. There’s a little bruise beneath it. The knife must have bounced off my bone instead of impaling itself in my flesh. The injury is no big deal, but I keep puzzling over why I didn’t move my foot. I must be getting old. Maybe this incident will go down in my personal history as the day I first realized that I really am middle-aged.

10:45 am
On second thought … Naaahh! If last year’s dirtbike spill didn’t do it for me, why should a little hole in my foot make a difference? It’s all in the attitude, right?

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