The first time it happened I was cutting the grass.
I made a sharp turn with our completely, non-self-propelled lawn mower, my foot slipped off of the curb, rolled under itself and just like that, I had a broken foot. Not sprained, broken. Because, if I’m going to go for it, I go for it all.
The second time I broke it was the most glamorous incident. I was skiing. You know, with those boots that don’t even let you BEND your ankle? Yeah, those. But, it was on a mountain! Okay, not really. It was a hill. In Ohio. Did I mention the boots?
The third time? It was when my daughter was a toddler and I was using an ottoman to block a doorway. If anyone knows ANYTHING about toddlers, it’s that they can’t climb over ottomans! Apparently, some adults can’t either.
The phone rang one day and instead of stepping over my barricade I decided to go all HURDLER on it. My enormous foot didn’t quite clear it and as I fell to the tile floor, I heard a snap. Then there were noises that sounded very much like someone was actually sticking a knife into my foot…via my ears.
The fourth time may have been tonight when I…wait for it…walked out of my back door. See incident #1 again. Roll, snap, elevate, repeat.
I am nothing, if not graceful.