This little piggy’s crying “Waa, waa, waa!”

A week and a half ago, I broke my little toe by, of all boring things, turning quickly and stubbing it on the floorboard in my bathroom. This is the first bone I’ve broken in my sixty-something years of existence (knock on wood, pooh-pooh, and all that).

I’m sure younger people stub toes and break them, but I can’t seem to separate this outcome of a stubbed toe from my slow advance toward osteoporosis…and old age. I suppose I can look on the bright side and be glad I didn’t do this in summer, when the temptation to wear sandals (against doctor’s orders) would be great. Still, I have to wear sensible shoes, and any pointy toes or high heels are out of the question. (Those who know me—and my feet—are now gathering to announce, in unison, “You NEVER wear pointy toes or high heels!”) This sensible shoe edict goes against my current campaign against frumpiness.

I’m sure I’ll survive this temporary affliction. But the jury is still out for my prescribed anti-bone-weakening regimen: large doses of Vitamin D, daily calcium, and lots of exercise. (Note to doctor: I can’t really exercise until my little toe heals.)