Friday, June 6, 2014

Moratorium lifted

I have broken the same big toe four times. 

Incident #1:
It is the night my sister is born.  My parents are at the hospital, and we are being (loosely) supervised by a babysitter.  My two older brothers and I decide to play a brilliant game wherein two of us stand on a blanket and the other pulls it out from under us.  Levi and I stand on the blanket.  Silas pulls it out from under us.  Levi's knee lands on my big toe.  I find out the hard way that there is nothing a doctor can do for a broken toe.  My lifelong hatred of socks begins.

Incident #2:
I am fourteen.  Silas pisses me off to the point of violence, as he is wont to do in these days.  I kick him as hard as I can in the shin.  My kicking form is not ideal, and the toe is broken once more.  My anger is not assuaged. 

Incident #3:
The place is Karuizawa.  Prayer conference, which is the best one because it's short enough that they don't bother planning a kids program.  We play floor hockey in the gym all day, and for some reason I am the only one not wearing shoes (possible influence of sock hatred).  My toe gets stepped on by a shoe-wearing boy and is broken for the third time.

Incident #4:
We are camping.  This really can't be classified as an incident, but more of an inevitability considering the weakened state of my toe.  I stand the wrong way on a rock and break my toe again.

I have since managed not to revisit this toe-breaking tradition, but sometimes that ache is still there on days when it rains or when the seasons change.  I fear that this saga is not over, as only two of my brothers have broken my toe with their knees, and I must now watch out for the third. 

Stay tuned for my next blog, in which I further explore clumsiness in general in search for a cure.

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