Promises of pedicures

I had a traumatic night last night.  It all started fun enough, when I realized the particular socks I was wearing were particularly slippy on my hardwood floors.  Once one realizes they are wearing slippy socks, one physically cannot get to the kitchen without running and sliding.  It's a proven fact.  So I slipped and I slided.  I was Tom Cruise from that one movie I've never seen (but with pants on), until  I was on the floor swearing after a giant splinter assaulted me.  Are you thinking what everyone else I told this story to was thinking?  "Wow, you must have been going pretty fast."(after first thinking, "wow, those floors are real wood?") Yes, yes I was going fast.   That bitch was deep.  So deep that I hopped away from my roommate, Bernard, as he came after me with pinching fingers.  So deep that I sat whimpering on my bed with unsuccessful tweezer attempts.  So deep that I called my mother for motherly-splinter-removal-secrets.  Unfortunately, she did not have any motherly-splinter-removal-secrets.  She offered moral support, infection fighting advice, and a reminder that I need to send her a check for my cell phone bill.  "I. am. in. a. crisis. Mother."

I was about to turn to my good friend Google, for endless advice in 0.423 seconds, when Bernard barged back into my room wanting a shot.  For the next 5 minutes I lay on the floor with my foot in the air, groaning and yelling "Get it ouuuuuut!" while Bernard leaned over me with tweezers in hand saying things like "I'm in deep, can you feel it?"  Our other roommate probably didn't know if I was in labor, or just getting laid.

I may have entered into a state of Splinter Induced Delirium.  The life of my foot flashed before my eyes.     I apologized to it for still having a little chip of November's nail polish on my big toe.  I regretted not making better use of my pumice stone.  My right foot deserved better.  If it made it through this, I promised it a pedicure so nice, the left foot would be jealous.  I imagined the rotten plank of wood festering in my sole.  I imagined infection.  I imagined having to go to the ER, feeling stupid for going to the ER for a splinter, yet needing the ER because I had a fucking piece of wood in my foot.  It was festering.  What if I lost it to to necrotizing fasciitis?!  What if Bernard's refusal to mop the floor has made it a hotbed of flesh eating bacteria that is now festering in my foot?! Damnit Bernard!  What if I lose my foot?  What if I lose my whole leg?!  What if while I slept, a man throws my prosthetic leg into the fire, thinking it was a log?!

After much digging on his part, and delirium on my part, Bernard finally pulls it out looking intact.  That bitch was huge.  We stared at it, in awe. It was nearly an inch in length. "That was in your foot."  I had an incredible urge to take a picture, but I was sidetracked by blood and my immediate need to disinfect/treat the hole in my foot.  I wasn't out of the necrotizing fasciitis woods yet.

24 hours later  it doesn't appear to be infected but it does hurt.   It hurt so much that I considered not going to work today.   I imagined emailing my boss to tell him why I couldn't make it in.  "Sorry, I can't make it in today, my foot hurts. Splinter wound." Followed by "Sir, I don't think you understand the magnitude of this splinter.  It was a B.I.T.C.H.  I'm dealing with a freaking puncture wound here.  If I were in the big leagues (baseball), I would be on the 15 day DL (disabled list)." He would have to believe me: A) Because he knows how I am (i.e. wouldn't be surprised that I was sliding around on hardwood for the fun of it) and B) No one's stupid enough to make up a story so...stupid.   However, I gritted my teeth, I laced up my sneaker, I proudly walked to the T station with one foot dragging slightly behind the rest of me.  I may never slide on hardwood again.