I should have just been happy to give him a card and a small bar of (Godiva) chocolate. The dark chocolate with raspberry filling. Yum. That was plenty, right?
But because it was Valentine's day, it didn't end there.
I have to back up a bit first.
Bill recently bought a pair of skiis, and boots. And a new waterproof coat. And base wear. And socks. And ski pants. I think that's everything on the list. He's become a born-again skiier. And we all suffer the fallout of his fanatacism.
Anyway, his new skiis arrived a few days ago, and he promptly brought them to the local Ski Market so they could put his bindings on and fit them to his boots, or whatever secret ski club stuff they do. He got them back on Friday after work, and now he's itching to try them out.
So he and a friend were going to go. Saturday night. As in yesterday. Yes. Valentine's day.
Now, I'm not really over the top about Valentine's Day. We exchange cards, maybe some chocolate, but that's about the extent of it. We stay FAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRR away from restaurants. It's hard to have a nice quiet just-the-two-of-you meal when you're packed elbow to knee with all the OTHER couples trying to do the same thing. So we eat at home. And besides, we can cook pretty well ourselves.
Back to the skiing. He and his buddy decided not to go skiing Saturday – not because it was Valentine's day – there were other reasons, including the slightly warmer weather we've been having. So they've made plans to hook up some other time in the future.
Bill still wanted to ski, however. Soon. He looked up the conditions locally and discovered that despite the weather, they had been making snow like crazy and had plenty of trails open. (See that, I don't ski, but I can speak a bit of the language.) He got the look in his eye. A rubbing-the-hands together, gleam in his eye, boy-waiting-for-Santa sort of look.
And I cannot resist a good opportunity to torture a person. So I feigned hurt and asked "You would go skiing tonight? Valentine's Day? And when I'm sick? Cough cough." (Big sad puppy eyes.)
He looked torn. I continued. Then I stopped. He might as well go. It's not like I was all that exciting to be around, mucus-filled as I was (and am.) He said he'd think about it.
Later on, when I was trying to work on one of the current dolls I've got in the works, he came into the room and announced that he was NOT going skiing that night because it wouldn't be right. On Valentine's day. I told him not to let that get in the way of things – I'd even make him a little sign to wear on his jacket "My wife said I could go skiing on Valentine's Day" just so no one would chastise him. But no. He wasn't going. Maybe he'd go the next morning, though.
And that was nice. I had a warm little feeling inside. Selfless gestures are way better than flowers, after all.
So. Fast forward a few hours. I was getting dinner started. Nothing fancy – just comfort food – a double batch of chicken tetrazzini. (One pan for me, the other for everyone else. No, not really.)
Bill had gone outside to put some things in the garage. And as I looked out the window, I felt a resurgence of that warm feeling I'd felt when he gave up an evening of skiing to hang out with his germ-laden wife. Sweet man. And I just thought – I'll go give him a hug. Just a simple Valentine's Day hug. A simple gesture. Just because.
So, wearing flip flops, because I don't have slippers and that's what I wear sometimes to keep my feet from feeling cold on the kitchen tile, I opened the back door.
And I opened the storm door with my right hand, stepped out with my right foot, onto the little rubber mat on the top step –
And then, quick as the proverbial wink, the mat slipped across the concrete step, bringing my foot with it, and next thing I knew, my foot was jammed under the iron railing on the other side of the step.
Here – in case you'd like a better visual – this is the rubber mat and our concrete stairs outside the kitchen door. (Well of course I went and took pictures after the fact. You'd be surprised if I didn't, wouldn't you?)
Next up, the railing, which is just beyond the door in the picture above.
And now, a closer view of the danger zone.
Okay, back to the story. My right was jammed under that lower rail. Not all the way to the ankle – about midway between where the toes attach to the foot and the ankle. Yeah. All those skinny little bones. And no padding. Ouch.
I stood there on my left foot, clutching my right foot with one hand and hanging onto the door with my other hand. I couldn't move. I wanted to cry. In fact, I could feel tears stinging my eyes. Peripherally I saw Bill look up from what he was doing. And I knew what he was thinking. Something along the lines of "What did she do now?" Because there are times, I admit, when I'm sort of a bit of a klutz. I stub a toe or whack an elbow from time to time. More times than normal, in Bill's opinion. I don't know about that. But whatever. I knew he was figuring something like that had happened. Something minimal.
I couldn't say anything. Or move. He yelled "Are you okay?" And I think I squeaked out a "no" because he left the garage and came over. I whimpered a quick explanation of what had happened, and he helped me hobble into the house. I made my way into the dining room and peeked at my foot.
"Do you want some ice?" Bill called from the kitchen. I think I said yes. I don't remember. I was busy staring at the icky top of my foot. There was a jagged triangularish purple outline and inside that area, it was white. I don't know why that grossed me out, but it did. Made me think of episodes of Man vs Wild when Bear Grylls eats caterpillar or worm guts. That's just how my brain works. I stared in morbid fascination at that white icky part and, in a bit of a panic, yelled to Bill "CAN I HAVE THAT ICE, PLEASE?" And then I thought of the ice pack touching my wounded skin and I felt my skin crawl, so I added "AND A TOWEL???" As I watched, the middle white part slowly turned purple to match the border. Oddly enough, it didn't look as creepy to me then.
Oh, and yes, it hurt. Not as much as what happened to my sister several years ago, of course, but still. It hurt.
Bill brought the ice pack and a dish towel and I gently draped them on my foot. The kids were in the room, too, looking concerned. I said I was fine, I'd just hurt my foot a bit. I'd be fine.
Bill asked if I needed anything else. I asked for my camera.
Here's my foot, after I'd kept the ice on it a bit.
I know. That little thing? The flash washes it out a bit. Try this one.
You can sort of see a reddish area surrounding the wound. I'm guessing that will eventually turn bruisy colors.
While I was sitting there, I noticed that the glass on our china hutch needs cleaning. But not until I'd take a picture of this:
See them now? The lips? Not sure who did that. I'd suspect Julia, of course, but unless she was on a chair, it's too high for her. Interesting what you see when you're just sitting.
Anyway, that was all yesterday. Today my foot still hurts, especially if anything touches the scab area. And also my left calf feels tight, like a leg cramp almost. But other than that, I'm okay.
And that's my story. I blame Valentine's Day. If it hadn't been V-Day, Bill wouldn't have decided not to go skiing, I wouldn't have felt like hugging him out of the blue like that, – in fact, at that time he probably wouldn't even have been home – and my foot would be fine. It's an evil holiday. Evil, I tell ya.
Now I'm going to limp upstairs and make pancakes or french toast for us all for breakfast.
If anything more colorful happens with my foot, I'll be sure to post the pictures.