My right foot looks like an overstuffed sausage in my black flats. Yesterday, a faint, kiwi-green bruise was on the top of my foot, casting a shadow on the bulging portion of my foot, which in turn spilled over the edges of the shoe, reminiscent of a muffin top. Today, the bruise has migrated closer to my toes—concealed by my shoe, at least — but angry and purple.
Ugh. I was trying to help out my Gentleman Friend, who is a band teacher at our local high school. It was the first home football game, which meant the first performance for the marching band, too. Everyone looked sharp: brass buttons shining on their jackets, plumed hats dancing impatiently in the breeze. They were lined up on the front stairs of the school, and all I had to do was snap the group photo to be used in the yearbook.
Except I noticed that the baton twirler on the far right wasn’t showing up in the frame.
That baton twirler is stupendously talented! If anyone deserves to be in this photo with the band and the color guard, it’s her!
So I backed up. Just an inch or two. I positioned the tripod so no one was left out of the picture.
That’s when I tripped. I fell over a curb, my foot landing in a small pothole, twisting awkwardly and painfully. I immediately floated above my own body. I watched myself, tumbling in slow motion, my arms and legs sticking out awkwardly like a cartoon character. I imagined I resembled the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, minus the charm and the singing.
Behind me, 150 high schoolers in marching band uniforms stared at me. I’m not particularly fond of public speaking, and the idea of falling in front of more than 100 strangers ranks right up there with some of my top worst-case scenarios. To their credit, the students didn’t laugh; instead, I heard a huge, collective gasp. After what felt like an eternity, I stood up, wincing a little, and raised my arms “Ta-Da!” fashion. The students cheered.
Thankfully, the camera was fine.
But my foot is not fine. Plus, I think my sense of dignity is bruised more than anything. Why didn’t I look behind me? Why wasn’t I more careful? Why didn’t I slow down?
Slow down. That’s what I’m always saying to myself. I wish things would just slow down. I wish things weren’t so hectic. I wish I had more time to appreciate the small things.
Now, whether I like it or not, I’ve slowed down. I limp with each step. When possible, I avoid walking or climbing stairs. The dog stares at me, wondering why his morning walks are so slow and so short. How can just one little foot cause so much trouble?
The walking shoes I just bought a few weeks ago are collecting dust in my closet. I won’t be taking long walks anytime soon. I doubt I could stuff my poor swollen foot into a sneaker anyway. Instead, I guess this is my long-awaited opportunity to slow down. I will catch up on my reading. I will studiously ice my foot, then elevate it gingerly onto a pillow. I will gaze out my window and remark that the leaves are slowly turning gold and red. I’ll take a few extra moments to fill my lungs with the pine-scented air outside. I’ll listen to the traffic whooshing past my front porch, and appreciate the shiny cars that have been diligently washed and polished by their owners.
I will slow down. I will take careful stock in the things that need to be done versus the things that can wait. While I’m doing it, I will convince myself that this is the new me! See? I’m slowing down! I’m not trying to juggle a bunch of things at once!
I knew I could do it.
