I used to use, "I've never broken a bone in my body," as one of my truths. Unfortunately, this now has to count as a lie.
Exactly one month ago, I broke my ring toe. (On my hand, that's my ring finger. Seemed to make sense as a ring toe too.) I'm not exactly positive how I broke it. As I was coming downstairs that morning, the baby gate was up at the bottom of the steps. Hubby and baby girl had been up for a little bit having breakfast and reading books. I think I was trying to step over the gate, but what really happened was I kicked the post at the end of the banister and then fell over onto the baby gate. It was splendid. And a little bit bloody.
The photo actually portrays my bruised-ness over a day later and the purple hue had already begun to fade quite a bit. The original shade of violet was almost immediate and darker than any bruise I had ever seen on my body. (And believe me, I am very GOOD at getting bruised.)
I was fairly certain that due to the bruising and hurty nature of my toe, that it was broken. But when, only a few days later the purple had faded almost completely, I wasn't quite sure any more. When I bruise, it usually lasts for quite a while So long, that not only can I not remember how I got it, but I forgot that the bruise was even there until my child pointed it out to me. (She likes to point things out that perhaps I had previously missed.)
It's been a month now, and the little bitty toe is still sore. It bends, sure, but it doesn't feel quite up to 100% just yet. I can still do plenty of jumping around on it, as my job requires, but it is still healing.
Tomorrow, I am 30. And I have broken a bone. I sure feel old.