A Story of Poor Impulse Control

There’s a lot of shit going on in the world today. But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to give you a simple story of human hubris leading to entirely preventable disaster.

I swear this isn’t about Trump.

It’s about me. It’s about what happens when I decide I’m going to do something, gods be damned.

This morning, I wanted to go running. I’ve been doing indoor cardio since it’s been cold, but floor space is currently at a premium due to apartment rearrangement, so I wouldn’t be able to do much. Hence, running. I’d gotten out all of my running clothes last night, except my shoes. I dragged myself out of bed late, but even though I was tight on time I figured I could still squeeze in a quick run. All I needed was my shoes, right?

I couldn’t find my shoes.

I searched high and low, but didn’t see them anywhere. I was running out of time. I didn’t want to run in any of my daily shoes, figuring I would either beat them up something fierce or they would cause me to land funny and mess with my ankles/knees/feet/I dunno something else like a splanch.

Wait, I don’t need shoes! I walk around barefoot in my (carpeted) apartment all the time, and besides, I won’t be running for more than ten minutes!

Reader, I’m sure by now you can guess my mistake.

So I go running. Barefoot. Whee! This’ll be just like that book and eventually I’ll build up callouses! NOTHING WILL GO WRONG.

It’s fine for the first bit, except for a bunch of uneven sidewalk. It’s also cold, but that’s not bothering me too much. After getting out to the main road I run down it and turn a corner. Turns out along there there’s a bunch of gravel where most places would have lawns between the sidewalks and the road. And this gravel has been spat up onto the sidewalk.

Ow ow ow ow.  Not fun. Plus there are cars around and I’m worried they’ll think I’m crazy for running barefoot in January. Which I am, but that’s not the point.

I don’t make it far before turning around and jogging right the hell back the way I came. It hurts like the dickens, but I press on. I head back up the road, past my own street, and then cross onto the other side of the main road. The cement sidewalk is much smoother here, and there’s no weird stone-cement combo sections like before, or cracks, or gravel. Worst I have to watch out for is some leaf litter. At this point, my feet are going numb on the bottom, but I take that as a good thing. It means they don’t sting as much, so I can finish my run. I run up and down the block on that side of the road for a while, until my time is finally up. I’m bushed, but dash across the road, deal with painful uneven asphalt and rocks on the way up to my building, and then make my way up the stairs, exhausted.

I thought I was just tired and a little sore when this was taken. LITTLE DID I KNOW.

Once I get inside, I check out my feet. They’re feeling numb and a little scraped up, but I’m sure they’re fine.

They are not fine.

Turns out a rock or something tore a gash in one of my pinky toes and I’m bleeding rather badly. I’ve also got blisters on most of my other toes. This is more than I bargained for. I manage to hop halfway up the stairs on my non-bleeding foot to the shower before realizing I don’t have conditioner. Heading back down to get it leads to accidentally getting blood on the carpet, which I do my best to clean up with my toe wrapped in toilet paper, and then I finally manage to get in the shower with a minimum of other blood splatter.

Long story short(er), I’m fine. I’ll be healing for a few days, but that’s okay. I figured ten minutes would be short enough not to cause damage. HUBRIS, my friends. But at least I learned something! Don’t start barefoot running by going for almost mile untrained in winter. Truly a lesson we can all take to heart and apply in our daily lives.

I hope you enjoyed this probably-pointless story of idiocy completely unrelated to the national firestorm clusterfuck going on right now. Keep your feet (and the rest of you) safe, my friends.