Not 6 months ago on my path to wellness, I crunched the ever loving snot out of my toes in a yoga class. The sound alone was enough to turn a stomach. The guy next to me shuddered in horror and whispered, “Are you ok?!” I blew him off with the obligatory, “I’m fine,” and then dragged my dead toes to the locker room. I sat there for an hour waiting for the gangrene to set in.
I am perfectly well coordinated in on-stage situations. Real life? Not so much. The Hot Urologist says I can injure myself while sitting down. He’s not wrong. I recently stood up from the sofa and fell sideways, face first into an end table.
How do I do this?
I am not aware that I suffer from an inner ear issue wreaking havoc on my equilibrium. Maybe I am absent minded, completely in lala land, or stupid. Whichever one it is, it is killing me.
So yes, roughly 6 months ago I cracked up 3 of 5 toes on one foot. And no, I wasn’t in the midst of some awesome flying mongoose pose. I was merely moving my leg in a forward trajectory and I failed.
Cut to 24 hours ago. I’m still not 100% in the digit department, but I am back to killing it in yoga (translation: sweating and falling over). I will be darned if I didn’t crunch a toe ON THE OTHER FOOT. But you do not leave Sage’s power Vinyasa. It simply isn’t done.
I finished the class because intelligence dictates that when you are injured you should boldly attempt to make the injury far worse by ignoring it. I spent an hour communing with a bag of ice in the locker room wondering how I would hobble to the car on two busted hooves.
My list of such injuries could fill a book. And I feel that drastic measures must be taken if I am to survive with all limbs in tact. I am no longer safe in my own body.
He’s might be right. Nevertheless, this could soon be rolling towards a Neiman Marcus near you.