It was past midnight on Saturday when I called the nurse help-line.
'What's the problem?' a british voice finally asked me after getting the history of my illnesses from the beginning of time.
'I injured my toe-nail'.
There was a very deliberate pause.
The voice found itself at last. 'How did it happen?
It was my turn to pause. 'I stepped on myself.'
Yes, I felt silly. Silly because I was calling up the nurse on-call about a toenail. Silly because I couldn't even blame anyone, or anything (not even alcohol), for hurting myself to the extent that I couldn't even walk properly, and had a very significant limp.
I was surprised to find that toenails can wreck havoc in one's normal life. If broken, they usually get infected, or have to be surgically removed.
Fortunately, mine didn't. I was told to keep it covered with a band-aid at all times and shut up. My toenail's a fighter, and by Wednesday, I half-forgot about my limp. When my partner in my waltz class stepped on my toe (the toe) yesterday, and started apologizing profusely, I laughed it off, saying I was more in danger of inflicting damage on myself by stepping on my toes than he ever could.
I did rediscover the principle of the conservation of pain. The minute the pain in my toenails left me, my knees went on a strike. And when that ended, I mysteriously cut my thumb.
I think I'm going to single-handedly revitalize the failing US economy with my neverending band-aid purchases.
