On Wednesday night I was sitting at home in my sweats, waiting for my hubbie to get home with a pizza, when I received a text message. It was from the photographer I work with at VerbNews, it read: "Am I at the right place?"
I froze, feeling the ripples of adrenaline and shock start rippling through my body as the realization washed over me. I forgot. I forgot about the restaurant review I'd booked for that evening.
I flew off the couch like someone had lit me on fire. I dialed him up, screeching that I'd forgotten and I'd be right there, all the while ripping off my sweats and throwing on a pair of jeans. I ran out the door and down the walkway - and it's at this point I should tell you I'd been watering the lawn for the past hour - and biffed it. Hard. The phone flew out of my hand as I fell flat on my butt on the wet and filthy walkway. Foot throbbing, I grabbed my phone yelled into it that I fell (not sure why) and that I'd be right there. I jumped in the car, immediately realizing that I'd forgotten my notebook. I ran back into the house, snatched it and sprinted back out the door. I didn't bother to lock it, and as my neighbour came running, asking if I was okay, I realized I didn't have time to call my husband and tell him why he'd be coming home to an empty, unlocked house. So I asked her to tell him, and look after my house. Well, not so much asked as screeched hysterically. But she got the message and I jumped in the car and raced off to the restaurant.
On the way to the restaurant I realized that my hands, forearms and elbows were smeared with mud. So, of course needing to get cleaned up, I proceeded to lick my hands and rub them on the seat to clean them off. I know, I know, disgusting. But desperate times... in any case, it worked. I parked and ran down the street to the restaurant, realizing as I ran that my butt was wet from falling and people probably thought that I was a) crazy and b) had wet my pants.
I arrived at the restaurant and the rest of the evening was lovely. I had a wonderful time. It was only when I got home that evening that I checked out my foot and realized that I'd grated it like cheddar on the sidewalk and it was swollen to goose egg proportions. Which brings me to the next morning, standing on one leg in the shower. I was doing this because it hurt like hell to have my foot in the water, and as I shampooed I couldn't help but think, "if this is how I die... slipping in the shower, standing on one leg... I'm going to be so pissed."