I'll Talk!

There I was, sitting in front of my computer and thinking about what I might write. You hear talk about what agony it is to stare at a blank page and not be able to come up with anything. In my experience, pressing like that is no way to come up with an idea. You've got to relax and wait for it to come to you. On this occasion, fortune smiled on me indeed, although it came in a form that I perhaps might have done without.

I was deep in thought, but a sharp sensation wrenched me out of it. It was pain, and I quickly traced it to my toe. Had I stubbed it? It seemed the most likely thing, but the pain was not of that nature. Wisely, I lifted my foot up to make a diagnosis. It was a quick one. There jutting out from underneath the toenail was a rather large splinter. I do apologize for the graphic nature of this, but I'm sure you appreciate that glossing over it would help nothing.

V-S Day

I have held off in making any final declaration, but five days after the cowardly and treacherous attack on me by a spider in the privacy of my own home, I feel secure now in declaring victory over it. It bit me, but I feel fairly confident that I killed it that night and now I am certain that I have triumphed over its weak and ineffectual venom. I won't deny that I was concerned about how I would weather the toxin coursing through my veins, but now I know that I am impervious to its effects.

I'm classy enough to now discount the idea of a lawsuit. Having beaten the spider's venom, I have nothing to prove against it, and I think that we all know spiders don't have money in any case. I would like to have a parade or a staged photograph such as the one of the sailor and the nurse on V-J Day, but I gather that parades are expensive and awash in red tape, and I sadly know of no attractive nurse who will submit to a "spontaneous" kiss.

Ouch!

There I stood on the balcony, enjoying the night air after a long day out and about. I had awoken at six in the morning, rushing to get ready and gather the things I would need for two more performances of a sketch comedy. Off we had gone to distant Pomona, breaking at midday upon the first performance's conclusion. I should have napped, but watched a movie with my roommate instead before heading downtown for the second successful performance. Returning home after, I was riding high... until it happened.

I was leaning over the edge of the balcony, resting my forearm on the wall. Suddenly, there was a pinch and a sharp pain! "Aaah!" I exclaimed, and in my pain I pressed against whatever had caused it. In a traumatized state, I fled the balcony, carefully closing the door behind me and rushing to wash the affected area. Immediately I decided that I must have been bitten by a spider. Naturally I began to wonder whether I might have been the victim of a rather venomous one such as a brown recluse or black widow.

Stay On The Good Foot

It feels like I get hurt a lot. It also seems that I heal slowly. Maybe that's just my subjective perception, or maybe it's to do with my own behavior. When I hurt my thumb and had to get stitches, I was admonished by the doctor for being an uncooperative patient. I don't deny it. The trouble is that healing tends to really cramp my style. Having a hurt thumb made it harder to do a thousand things, but doing them at all may have slowed the process. It's just that I can't not do things.

Some time ago I rolled one of my ankles walking down some stairs. The smart thing would have been to stay off it until I was better, but I am hardly at liberty to stay on the shelf for as long as that takes, and I certainly don't have the inclination to walk on crutches or any such thing. I certainly try to go easy on it, and mainly manage it. I have been declining invitations to play basketball and do other non-essential things that I fear will be a problem, but I have to walk and do other things.

Feet First

I pity the poor foot. It suffers so badly. Day in and day out, it is sheathed in cotton and encased in what may or may not be a comfortable shoe. This constant prison of footwear is just where the foot's ignoble travails begin. Even being locked into that hell does not protect it from harm, for the soft, yielding shoe permits no end of it to the fragile, helpless toes. Why must the foot so seldom see the light of day and feel the caress of a cool breeze? It is nothing short of the most ugly intolerance. Is the foot unpleasant? Perhaps so, but is the remedy to lock it away in dank, clammy confines like some Morlock? I submit that it is not. The foot should have liberty to come as it is to more places than the beach or the park.

Of course, sparing others the sight and smells of the foot is maybe not the only reason why people cover up their feet. As I said, the shoe offers imperfect protection, but is sometimes valuable. A recent trip to some hot springs served as a renewed example of what may happen to the unwary, unshielded foot. Between the aforementioned springs, a pool, a Roman spa and the beach lining a small lake, the amenities for which shoes were a realistic proposition were few. This is most unfortunate, because the appeal of those things which makes shoes unwelcome leaves the feet at the mercy of some very rough elements. The springs in particular menaced my own feet with impunity. Their bottoms savaged my soles badly, and their sulphurous waters had prunes taking a lesson from the condition of the skin thereon.

"Them that die will be the lucky ones!"

When I was a boy, I was as awkward and uncoordinated as you might expect. I really don't think I've gotten any better except that perhaps I now have a better understanding of my limitations. My athletic exploits often resulted in hurt feelings, and less often in getting hurt. There was a lot of gasping for breath during basketball games. I was struck by a thrown ball once in Little League, recovering quickly thanks to the canny direction of the coach to go get a drink of water. I recall aching ankles during grade school intramural flag football, when I was a nose tackle. Even then, I didn't really have the body for it. I guess it reflected the makeup of our team and the attitude of our coach about inclusiveness.

The worst incident took place on a school field trip to the roller skating rink. One laced up the old-fashioned roller skates, and just skated in circles over and over for hours while what it's hard to believe was popular music of the day played over the speakers. I don't recall finding it terribly stimulating. Maybe it was boredom which distracted my focus, for at one point that day, I pitched forward and hit the rink face-first. Conventional human behavior is for reflexes to instinctively take over and force the hands to shoot out and take the impact rather than the critical brain-containing skull. I have always been something of an outlier, and failed to acquiesce to reflexes.