Blessings in Disguise

Well, it's now exactly 1:45am on Wednesday morning. My foot it taped and my face cools as the sweat trails evaporate. No, the this late night "tape-and-sweat" is not the result of a midnight running extravaganza. Rather, the consequence of what I hope to be a blessing in disguise.

As you all have been following this blog lately you know that this week has been a high mileage week, which results in those late night snack attacks. As I removed two steaming hot soy burgers from the microwave my elbow accidentally bumped a glass from the edge of the counter. Down it went. SMASH! The classic sound glass shattering like ice crystals cracking on the cement. "Shit." I thought to myself. Without taking a step (because we all know the only place where there isn't glass on the floor is right under your feet) I awkwardly reach out and scoot the trash barrel a bit closer. For those of you readers that enjoy imagery it might be best to describe this uncomfortable stance as an "ass-out-hug." Shoulders forward, butt out. Yeah...that.
As usual, the largest pieces were collected first, and with a hand-full I slowly rose to discard of these sharp little pieces of shrapnel. Just like in a car wreck, time slowed down as a piece of glass slipped and floated towards the floor. Don't worry though, the glass was alright. My foot was there to stop it.

It took a second to realize what had actually happened. A line of blood spray, as one might imagine in a CSI scene, now coated the cabinets below the sink, and a pool of rich, dark liquid started to pool at the lowest point of the kitchen floor. "Did this just happen? Am I bleeding?" How sad, a boy able enough to blog about his poe wittle owie didn't realize that this Rhode Island shaped piece of glass just sliced deep into his flesh, which allowed blood to escape captivity from it's native veins.

"Elevate!" My first thought. I swung my leg onto the edge of the counter with blood, not dripping nor pouring, but evenly flowing down the foot to paint the sink red. Napkins near by are the only things to help coagulate this mess of a foot. As I stand there, knees slightly bent, my face becomes flush and beads of sweat slowly form. Nerves build as I become more and more anxious watching the white napkin bleed red and become soggy. "At what point does this become serious enough for me not to be able to handle on my own? Should I get the attention of one of the three house guests that are sleeping the the living room 10 feet away? Do I hobble upstairs holding one foot like an acrobat?" Yes, hobble. That is the best option.

The very helpful roommate quickly find out the severity of the situation as he's abruplty awaken from REM. Still sweating, the bleeding slows as I sit on the toilet, leg raised, and the new mouth on my foot has its lips clamped shut. After a call to a dear friend seeking advice the battle scar speaks no more as it has become silenced with layers of tape. Thank you Shane. Thank you Leah. You have helped prevent the loss of a runner's foot and perhaps even a cup or two more of blood.

I had high hopes for running this week. New goals and new personal bests to concuer. However, blessing have been said to come in disguises, or perhaps in this case, a foot wraped in half a roll or athletic tape.