My birthday weekend began with chocolate covered strawberries and ended with chicken parmesan. Thanks to FringeMan, it was pretty much perfect.
In the quest to accept another number and a few more gray hairs while keeping my
sanity dignity intact, I hosted a Pampered Chef party on Friday night. There’s nothing like kitchen-ware to make a woman feel young.
So not true, but it was fun to host a little party and watch as another woman cooked white chicken chili in my house. For a moment, I knew how it would feel to have my own personal chef – Pure Unadulterated Bliss. I could handle not having to scrounge through the cabinets at five-thirty wondering what in the world I’m going to create for dinner.
After everyone went home and FringeMan and I finished consuming the leftover strawberries, I sat down to remove my sock and slipper. Yes, I did wear slippers to my party, but in my bad-fashion defense, my foot tried to put me in one of those motorized scooters before my thirty-seventh birthday. It swelled up like a plump tomato ready to burst through its skin on a sunny day in August. It was hot and it hurt. Did I mention the pain I ignored until ten o’clock at night?
A lump seemed to be forming on the bone about a half-inch under my toe, but it was hard to tell. The swelling camouflaged any specific cause. After elevating my foot with a bag of frozen vegetables on top, FringeMan thought I should go get it get it checked out. You see, we had plans to go away on a little overnight the next day. For my BIRTHDAY!
So I went.
Holding my foot in his hand, the doctor ran through a list of diseases that ranged from allergic reactions to a cyst that may need to be drained. I stopped him briefly at flesh-eating disease. You don’t utter words that may cause my skin to drip off my bones twenty-four hours before my birthday. I think there’s an oath about that.
In the end, the doctor said, “I don’t know what it is, but your foot seems pretty pissed off.”
A pissed off foot – my official diagnosis. So I went home armed with ice-packs, Advil, and a prescription for antibiotics in case my flesh began melting, or eating, or any other devilish pre-birthday verb.
I know you’re wondering what my foot looks like now…the swelling is gone, but I’m left with a hard knot on the top of my foot and it still hurts. I’ll have to call and make a doctor’s appointment, but for a few more minutes, I’m going to hope that it disappears as quickly as it came to dash my hope of buying cute shoes for my birthday.
I didn’t buy them. Yet. I’m waiting on my foot before I send $67.99 sailing through the internet.
On Saturday, I did manage to find something fabulous though, but alas, I’ve used too many words. You’ll have to wait for My Birthday Saga, Part II.