Weenie

You know how you watch movies or shows or read stories about people who just toughed something out and showed everyone around them that they could do it? In this instance, I'm thinking "GI Jane." I remember watching that and thinking, "yeah -- chicks are tough! Take that, stupid boys!"

And, by virtue of being a "chick" myself, I figured I must be just as strong. I think of myself as tough. I don't wince when the hair stylist combs through my tangled hair (I have a tough head). I don't cry when I get a steam burn while cooking (becuase I'm tough). And I wore gas-permeable (hard) contact lenses for three years in junior high school and learned to not freak out when they moved off the center of my eye ... because I'm tough. Duh.

But last night, I discovered that I'm not very tough.

In fact ... I'm a weenie.

I had just finished watching SNL, and since I had never turned off the oven from baking eggplant earlier in the night, I figured I'd also tackle my butternut squash and have one less thing to cook on Sunday.

So, at midnight, I pulled out the cutting board, the knife and the squash. And I began to cut the squash in what was intended to be halves. By the end of the night, I didn't care much what the squash looked like.

A crash, and a sense of indescribable agony ... and I was certain that I had somehow dropped the knife that was still buried in the butternut squash, because my big toe felt like it had been magled and needed to be amputated, if it hadn't already been so.

Swearing a combination of words that I didn't know could go together, I looked at my foot ... and at the cutting board that had slid off the counter and had angled itself to land on its edge ... on my big toe.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stand. I hopped into the living room, flapping my arms (because that helps a lot) and then just crumpled to the floor, not breathing but still somehow whisper-screaming my pain, wanting to pound my floor with my hands and yet not wanting to frighten my new downstairs neighbors. So I just lay there on the floor, wanting desperately to cry, but unable to summon any tears (those came a few minutes later -- and in very great quantities), gasping in whatever air I could, and looking at my rapidly blackening toenail.

It's been a long time since I've hurt myself bad enough to cry, but once I was able to cry last night, I was sobbing. This was one mofo of an owie.

The kicker: My freezer won't freeze ice. It takes days and days, and by the time ice has actually frozen in the little trays, the water has also absorbed every funky odor my fridge can emanate. So I gave up keeping unusable ice in the freezer.

So I had no ice.

I just had my bathtub and the cold water tap.

And I wanted my mom(my).

Besides having the very appreciated sympathy that a mom(my) is supposed to have, I knew she was the only person in my world who could understand and appreciate what I was feeling, having shattered her big toe three years ago when a frozen, 20-pound turkey fell on it. So I sat on the edge of the tub, my foot submerged in the coldest water my faucet could produce, sobbing my agony into my cell phone while my mom listened and gave sympathy and encouragement. It wasn't as good as being able to get a hug, but it counted.

The throbbing pain didn't cease 'til around 6 this morning -- pain that felt like someone was repeatedly stabbing my toe; pain that kept me mercilessly awake, crying and cursing my pillows for not being fluffy enough to keep my foot propped up enough to keep the pain away enough so I could sleep ... needless to say, I didn't make church this morning.

All of that to confess to you, my readers, that I am not GI Jane tough.

I'm a weenie.

A weenie with a big, black toe.