“Nay, vile temptress! I’ll have none of what you’re offering!”
“Oh, come on. Just a little.”
It sat there, on the bottom shelf of my fridge, taunting me. “One little nibble won’t hurt.”
“Begone, thou demon of chocolatey goodness! I’ll not fall victim to your charms!”
Still, it beckoned me, the fudge leftover from my Christmas culinary activities. “It will be easier to stick to a diet once I’m gone,” it crooned. “Come on. Just a little nibble!”
I pulled myself away from the sweet temptation and reached instead for the bag of salad and the balsamic vinegar dressing. Along with millions of other Americans, with the advent of the new year I determined to get back on a healthy-eating plan. I would not give in to the nearly overwhelming desire to chow down on junk food.
And so I prepared my salad. I filled my bowl with fresh, leafy greens and topped it with some sliced bell peppers and celery. To round it out with a bit of protein, I retrieved a can of chicken from my pantry shelf.
I wasn’t wearing shoes (a fact that will become relevant in a moment) as I stood at my counter and turned the knob on my can opener. In moments I had freed the poultry goodness from its tin cage.
I lifted the jagged-edged disc, shiny on one side and slippery with chicken goo on the other, so it no longer sealed my lunch in its can. Carefully, so as not to slice my finger on the sharp side, I prepared to deposit it in the proper waste receptacle.
My hand moved from above the counter to above the floor. More specifically, above my foot.
Just then, my fingers lost their grip on the slick surface.
Like one of those buzz saws in a logging mill in a cartoon, or perhaps a Chinese throwing star, the tin dervish of malice spiraled toward my naked, unsuspecting foot.
“Mommy, I need….”
I don’t remember what my daughter needed. I wasn’t paying much attention to her. Nay, my attention was instantly and solely engrossed with the blood spurting from the canyon in the second toe of my right foot onto my white tile floor.
I grabbed a wad of paper towel from the roll and attempted to stanch the flow while I hobbled to the bathroom.
I don’t bend as well as I used to. One of the many reasons for attempting to forgo the fudge and indulge in chicken salad. Thus, finagling a way to get my gushing extremity up onto the sink took some doing. Using the toilet as a stool, I climbed up onto the sink.
My hubby, thinking more rationally at that moment than I, brought in a bar stool for me to sit on, where I could rest my leg on the counter top and allow my foot to dangle over the sink wherein to bathe it.
As I sat there, dumping peroxide over my wound and watching the rivulet of blood snake its way down the drain, it occurred to me that I should probably give up any attempt at healthy ingestion and just stick to consuming junk food. It’s safer.