My Toe's Broke.

So I kicked my husband on the way home from a Nationals game. These things happen.

I didn't mean to kick him, of course. Instead, I had my face upturned to the sights around me, taking in the construction that's already begun and the artist's renderings of what will be in just a few short months. Mike turned to say something to me, I sped up, and then I kicked him, right in the heel, bare toe to insulated sneaker.

It hurt. Then it went numb. Then I felt sick. And then my little pinky toe lit itself on fire.

"Look down at my foot and tell me if my toe is still there," I told my friend Jeremy, who was standing next to me in the Metro station as we waited on the Green Line to take us back to L'Enfant Plaza. He looked down, gasped, and looked back at me.

"Oh, yes, it's there," he replied. When I finally looked for myself I could easily see the Vienna sausage that my fifth digit had become. That, there, was enough to make my stomach turn!

It's been more than a decade since I last broke a bone, so I figure I'm due for one. And on the bright side I'm glad it happened early in the marathon season, when I have the flexibility to rest it here and there as needed and not drag it 20 miles on a Saturday morning.

I did skip my eight-miler that was scheduled for Sunday because, well, I could not walk. But today I did an experimental two-miler (instead of my scheduled three) with my foot taped up like a mummy, and you know, it wasn't so bad. I'll give a four-miler (instead of five) a try tomorrow and see how it goes.

So, in the meantime, ice is my friend. And because of this little adventure I have learned about the joy that is comfortable, cushy tape, not that old white rigid stuff we used to use in softball. Who knew? Thanks, CVS!

:)