Danger Zone

I am in pain. Not surprising. But my "accidents" seem to come in waves. It all started yesterday morning.
Every single day when I walk into my period 4 classroom, the guy who has class in there before me seems to get a very big kick out of "surprising" me. Every. single. day. As in, I-drop-my-shit-and-scream. And I know it's coming, but I can't seem to "not get" surprised. And so late last week, I warned the six foot two fifty guy to "stop doing that", it's going to give me a heart attack. But yesterday... then beautiful yesterday... he did it again. And, much to his chagrin, and then to mine... I heard my mouth say in garbled slow motion, " I said STOP doing that" and my leg coaxing me to "do it"... KICK HIM. And so with every ounce of energy, muscle, fat and bone, I swung with all my might. And then we had a connection. Hard plastic Target shoe to shin. And the crack, as my teaching aide said, " sounded like a home run!". Moments after, not even a second, we were both bent over in pain. And I must admit, it was pure joy on my end. Despite the throbbing feeling in my shit kicking ankle. And as the story drifted through the school halls, it was always met with a "bethca he won't do that again".
But now my ankle hurts.
And then last night, my husband had a single co-worker over for dinner, because he's a nice guy and he's been craving a home-cooked meal. So... I had the glorious floor to work magics in the kitchen and to really be appreciated for my efforts. Game on. Baked pork chops, corn on the cobb, home fries, salad, and chocolate chip cookies. A meal meant to impress the everyman. But if you are a cook, you will soon know that there was quite a lot of "oven stuff" going on over here. So much, in fact, that I seemed to have forgotten myself! even as I reached in to pull out the lucious, crispy fries. And then the quick scorch quickly brought me back to my senses. I looked down at my arm and noticed a good sized sizzle had cooked the bacon right off my arm. It's disgusting... and painful.
Don't even start in on me with my toe. It's still.... gruesome. And no amount of polish is "corrective" enough for my tastes, because as I laid the 527th thick coat on there, my toe began to look like those polyeurathane paper weights with a scorpion stuck inside. Only it's not an insect, it's my freakin TOE nail.
And then there was the boxing. Which I admit was fun. And while boxing when I told my husband about the ankle injury, he suggested that next time we work on some "proper kicks". And as I punched that bag- hands coated in thick, hot, pink, plastic gloves, I felt good, mighty... strong! Until today. It sort of reminded me of the day Jen needed nude colored arthirtic arm supports to sip her beer properly. I felt as if picking up the chalk to write on the board was suddenly... difficult.
So... even though I got new shoes in the mail yesterday ( thanks Piperlime... for being as good as Zappos! ) I could not wear them as the heel height was taxing. I could not wear long sleeves due to the burn. I could not wear sandals because of the toe. I could not write because of the boxing arms. I was not agile due to the on-going back issues.
If ever there was a call for Zuma pants, moon boots, and a muscle tee... this, my friends, would be IT.