I am what some might say...a klutz! I have learned to embrace it. I laugh at myself quite a bit.
Last year at the start of July we were gearing up for a long trip to the lake to see our families. I had already mentally prepared myself for the drive and was in the middle of packing. We had been enjoying our pleasant Illinois evening when we decided to take Pepper for a walk. When my daughter asked if she could hold the leash, I didn't think much of it. After all Pepper is a little dog weighing in at a whopping 20 pounds. What problems could we have with this scenario?
Occasionally Pepper gets a wild hair and takes off on a full-on run. I don't know if it is a breed (Boston Terrier) trait or what but it is a hilarious thing to see. That is until someone is walking her. You guessed it...she found that wild hair and she was off. Sis was holding on to the leash but once Pepper got to the end of the slack in the leash she let go. I wish I could say that is the end of the story, but it is not.
Pepper did a loop around me with her leash dragging/flying behind her. As she finished her loop around me the leash got me. It tightened around my ankles and she kept running. I received quite possibly the absolutely worst rope burn around one of my ankles. Water skiing was out of the picture that trip to the lake because the ski boot would rub on my ankle.
Fast forward to this July. 5 days ago. We were already at the lake. C-man was wound for sound. He was on a rampage. He was excited to be at the lake which multiplies his already wild and crazy by 10.
He ran out the back door. I was close on his heels as I flung open the screen door. I didn't want the screen door to slam so I tried to catch it with my foot. That's when it happened...I cut my foot on the bottom corner of the door. I stood there on the deck clutching the railing while I tried to make sense of the pain that I was radiating from my heel. I told myself I was fine and that I just needed to go find a washcloth and a bandaid. I hobbled back in the door asked my sis-in-law to watch the crazy boy and so I could clean my wound. Then the guys came in. Within a few minutes of looking over my foot they insisted that I go to urgent care. Once there I received 3 stitches on the deepest part of the cut.
My foot modeling days are over. I knew one of these days I was going to get the call that I had been waiting for. You know the one that goes something like this...
Hello?
Yes, hello. This is the Pretty Feet agency. Are you the one with the beautiful feet?
Me? Well, yes. I guess that is me.
Please come to New York so that you can share your feet with the world. We have commercials, magazine ads, and infomercials that desperately need your wonderful feet.
Um, ok. But I need to pack.
Don't worry about it. We will buy you a brand new wardrobe with matching shoes.
Yes, I was certain that any day now that I would receive that call. But I am going to have to hang up my foot modeling career. Nobody wants a foot model with a scar that wraps around the upper part of her ankle or a scar that looks like the number 7 on her heel.
I guess I will have to focus on my other career, Mommyhood. It pays well, right? I wonder what the currency exchange is for eye rolls, slobbery kisses, and rotting sippy cups.
Priceless.
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