smacky and bucky

Last night around 9:30 I decided to move some boxes into the basement, because that's how I start projects: On a spur-of-the-moment whim. I looked at the stack and figured if I carried three at a time, the task would be done sooner (because that's also how I start projects: Deciding the fastest way to complete them). I also decided to do this in bare feet. That's an important part of the story, as you'll soon see.

The third step from the bottom, my right foot came down and the heel rubbed against the riser (the vertical slat of wood on a staircase). It hurt, but I continued down the steps and put the boxes on a table. Then I looked down and noticed the blood. I had left a trail of it across the concrete floor. I raised my right leg to look down at my heel and saw that I had scraped about a two-inch area of the skin off the heel. When I lifted my foot, the blood flowed down my arch and was now dripping off my toes.

I called out to my wife upstairs and calmly asked if she could bring me a paper towel. She must have noted something in my voice, because she ran down with an entire roll. As she turned the corner, she saw the blood and followed the trail with her eyes as it led to me, now standing with my foot raised and a growing pool of blood beneath it. I'm sure I had an "aw, shucks" dipshit smile on my face. The sort of smile you give when someone has seen you do something stupid.

I held a paper towel on my heel and we got the blood up off the floor while it was still wet. She said if I ever go missing, CSI will test the basement, find my blood everywhere, and ask where she buried my body.

Some antiseptic and a few band-aids in a cross pattern and I was no longer a biohazard. I elevated my foot and read for a little while. I wore an old tennis sock on my right foot last night, and this morning noticed that it had bled through in four places. Luckily the sock absorbed it all, so no bloodstained sheets.

So that, along with the poison ivy that is just now starting to go away, and I won't be modeling shorts in the Sears catalog any time soon. (Not that I ever did before, it's just now it would be icky.)

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I didn't mean to imply that XL = fat. I was just trying to come up with a delicate way to put it. I'll just quote The Simpsons: "I heard your dad's ass has its own congressman!"