False Alarm

Husband is among the most gifted gifters in the history of giving.

One year for Christmas he gave me a heated towel warmer. Really! Is that inspired or what? He knew how much I hate being chilled, and that I'm willing to have body parts removed just so I can experience those heavenly heated blankets in the surgery recovery room, so he found a gizmo that would keep my towel toasty warm until I got out of the shower.

He's come up with concert tickets to performances he knew I would love (even if he didn't, so much), and with kitchen whatchamacallits that measure a pinch of spice because he knows I am a pushover for kitchen whatchamacallits.

Perhaps his most inspired purchase, though, was a couple of years when I found this book in my Christmas stocking:

101 Diseases You Don't Want to Get. With photographs!

I admit to just a tad of hypochondria. Unlike most people, who self-diagnose their minor symptoms as innocuous until otherwise proven, my mind immediately goes to the worst case scenario and works backwards. Am I coughing? Probably tuberculosis. That headache: Must be a tumor. A rash? Oh, my gosh, that's on page 42 of my book, and it's DENGUE FEVER!

Last night Husband had just gotten home from work and we were decompressing our days when I happened to glance down at my feet.

Oh. My. Gosh.

My toes were bright red, as if they'd been scalded. I hadn't been in the sun, I hadn't dipped them in boiling water, what in the world? My mind raced but I didn't say anything so as to not  panic Husband, who was recounting his service call to the manufacturers of his tax software. (I know! How could I be distracted?)

I mentally paged through my book, pausing at the entries for elephantiasis and cellulitis.

I could practically feel the swelling moving up my leg so I slipped off the old shower flops I had put on before working on a craft project. The project had involved spraying several poster boards with brick red spray paint, and I didn't want the overspray to....

Oh. Okay. Never mind.