Namastoe

It had to happen sooner or later. My inevitable yoga accident. Did I dislocate my shoulder in the three limbed backbend known as Wild Thing? Nope. Did I strain my neck looking around at my neighbors while in shoulder stand? Not this time. Did I hit my head against the wall, falling in an aborted handstand? No, at least, not recently.

Here's how it went down. I was in three-legged dog with my leg pointing toward Nirvana. Using way too much momentum, I swung my leg in to transition to a lunge, but my foot was angled wrong and I slammed my pinky toe on the hardwood floor. It hurt like a son-of-a-you-know-what. What's more, the instructor was focusing on me because I was new to his class. Gritting my teeth and planting my good foot solidly into the floor, I held my breath (huge yogic nono) while he adjusted me in Ardeshandrasana. Mercifully, I was on my good foot – my other leg was extended, foot flexed, broken piggy delicately throbbing.

I did not cry wee, wee, wee all the way home: I stuck out the class. I am macho that way. I was able to slip on my loose sandal and drive home but by bed time, my foot was swollen and mauve. The next morning, the little toe and its cleavage were the color of a grape popsicle.

I skipped the x-ray and doctor visit. I have it on very good authority that all they do is tape your toe and send you home. So I stayed home, and taped my toe. My spouse keeps shaking his head and giving me pitying looks. Years ago, I tripped over a vacuum cleaner cord and snapped my big toe in half. On the X-ray, the severed phalange floated above the rest of my toe like a little cloud of bone. But my husband doesn't remember the vacuum cleaner, or the cord. He says I just started doing some random spaz dance and fell over, which, given my modest degree of natural coordination, is entirely possible.