De-commissioned toe

I bumped my toe. Whacked it, really. I know that this doesn't seem to be important enough to warrant its own blog post but it REALLY hurt. Like stifle-the-naughtiest-of-naughty-words hurt. And then, when the pain doesn't diminish, decide, "Why bother repressing your feelings?" Swear away!

Where, on the shower unit, is the warning label instructing you to hoist your knees up like a drum majorette when exiting the tub? They don't trust me to know the all-important lather-rinse-repeat pattern or to not ingest hand sanitizer or, heaven forbid, be cautious of my hot coffee.

The other day, in the bathroom, while doing some recreational reading--e'hem--I made note of the revolutionary claim declared by my package of disinfecting wipes that this lemon-lime blossom scented product kills the germs associated with Influenza A, Salmonella, E-coli, Strep, and Herpes. And the generic brand says it  KILLS HIV!!! Let's stop talking about my toe for a minute. Do you realize the implications of these advertised assertions? Now, of course, these specially-treated wipes are hazardous to humans and domesticated animals (Apparently no one care about livestock) and can cause eye irritation so we have to tread carefully here but DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!? The scientists have been doing it all wrong! Forget the research and clinical trials based on complex synthetic formulas and whatever you're whipping up in those little petri dishes of your's. All you need to do is figure out a way to safely inject bleach into our bloodstream. Problem solved. You're welcome, World. Back to my toe.

Brad was marginally sympathetic when I told him that I had experienced blunt-force hema-TOE-ma. Minor injuries tend to send me into a hysterical tail-spin (See the Great Kickball Catastrophe of ought-13). As my toe was soon swollen and discolored, I could stem some of the dramatics because, as the saying goes, the toe speaks for itself. Describing the extent of my injury, however, had me flummoxed as it wasn't one of the better known toes. Not the Big Toe. Not the Pinkie Toe. Not even the Ring Finger Toe. No...this was...the naughty toe. Which does not actually lend itself to the dignity the toe deserves.

Having long-borrowed from Seinfeld, the Mosimans are quite comfortable with the premise of assigning military ranking to the toes.

George: "You know how the big toe is the captain of the toes, but sometimes the toe next to the big toe gets so big that there's a power struggle and the second toe assumes control of the foot?"

Jerry: "The coup de toe!"

I immediately decided that the naughty toe should be a corporal because I felt that it lent a ring of authentic to my injury. I had suffered a blunt force hematoma to the right corporal toe. See?

Well...take it to the military men in my life to stage their own little uprising.

"That toe," my dad said pointing, "Should be a lieutenant."

Brad nodded, agreeing with him while mouthing at me, "I told you so." I sighed. We'd fought over this very subject for the entire drive to my parents'.

"No...Dad...," I wiggled my working piggies for him. "Private Toe...PFC (Private First Class) Toe, Corporal Toe, Captain."

My mom frowned. "What's the Big Toe then?"

"He's the BIG Toe...like a Five-Star General." For fun, he saluted my mom.

"This is just ridiculous," my dad snapped. "It would be a lieutenant."

"You can't re-rank my feet," I argued. Brad remained silent, smirking as I could sense his snarky little joke about my rank feet emanating from his mind.

None of this would have happened if I had fulfilled my life goal of becoming a Rockette. Meanwhile, Brad's busy pricing those walk-in tubs.