Who you gonna call?

Ghostbusters.

Seriously. Try not to say "Ghostbusters" when someone says anything remotely like that.

Everyone I know who is single and lives alone has an underlying fear of dying in their home and not being found for weeks... their pets/ants/dust mites feeding off their body until the stench frightens a neighbor or their boss realizes their usually prompt responses to his/her stupid questions have gone unanswered (I would REALLY like to believe someone at work would miss me before I started to stink).

Greater is my fear of dying alone in my home not from a an accidental electrocution or cat-initiated gas leak, but what if I fall in the shower, hit my head, and have what is only a fatal wound because I can't GET to help and I linger, alive, in the tub, until the cats/ants/dust mites eat enough of me that I have to die of embarrassment (and loneliness)?

I'm not about to tell you about the 12th cooking-related knife wound that had me panicking this year that I was dying because the bleeding didn't stop for a whole 10 seconds... This is not about that (although I am avoiding knives the rest of the day since my Facebook feed has two [TWO!] friends with bandaged fingers due to cuts and you know that shit happens in threes).

This is about standing up to take my plate to the kitchen. And my toe getting caught in the cuff of my pajama pants. And that split second where I thought:

I'm going down.

And somehow I freed said toe. And my foot safely met the ground where I needed it to. And I didn't spill the 7 leaves of spinach left on my plate that I should have just eaten, but they're not good once all the other stuff is gone. And I thought:

I could have broken a toe! 

And I could have. But I didn't. But what if I did?

So I wondered who I would call for a broken toe? Would I call my mom? Because she would come and she would take me to the hospital/doctor and she would laugh at my stumbling and in the back of her head she'd be thinking:

Thank God she didn't die in the tub. 

Because moms worry about their daughters.

Would I call my girlfriend who lives 3 blocks away? That would make the most sense. She's reachable. She works for an Urgent Care Center so she'd know where to take me. (I know where the ER is, but I don't think I need to be in the ER that specializes in gunshot wounds for a broken toe.) She'd laugh with me about how we might die in the tub.

Would I call WC? He would absolutely drop everything and come over and take care of me. And in my head I could create an elaborate damsel-in-distress/tough-as-nails/can-take-care-of-myself-but-I'll-let-you-help type thing that ends in us humping behind a curtain at the doctor's office. But I'm in my pajama pants. I just picked a pimple. I'm not wearing a bra. This t-shirt has armpit stains.  And what if it hurts so much that I cry? I'm ugly when I cry. I've never cried in front of him. What if in all my pain I ugly-cry, pass-out from a panic attack, and shit my pants?

I could call a cab, I guess. Since it's my toe I can't just drive myself... even if it's my left foot because I drive a stick-shift because I'm awesome and in the situation above it would have been my right toe anyway.

Christmas Eve 2011 I cut myself. I was cutting a stale and crusty loaf of bread and as I set the breadknife against the bread I thought:

This is stupid. I should not do this.

But I did it. And I cut myself. And I bled. And I bled some more. And while Googling "Do I need stitches?" I continued to bleed.

So I called an Urgent Care joint that I'd seen in my area. It went like this:

Me: I cut myself. I'm sure you have a room full of idiots who have cut themselves today. I'd like to not fill your waiting room if I don't need to. How do I know if I need stitches?

Urgent Care Dude (UCD) (imagine a 17 year old girl talking to her parents and that was his tone): I don't know. I can't see the cut... 

Me: Any tips? Like... it's been bleeding for x amount of time and I should come in? Or if it's 2" deep, I should come in...?

UCD: How should I know how bad it is? I can't see the cut... 

Me: I'm wondering if you have any helpful guidelines that aren't sarcastic. 

UCD: I'm not being sarcastic. I'm... um...I just can't see the cut. 

Me: I realize you can't see the cut, but you're being incredibly sarcastic. I realize I am not unique in my idiocy, but you're being rude and unhelpful. 

UCD: I'm just... not... can't see it... 

Me: I guess I'm just going to bleed to death. 

I hung up. And despite my blood boiling with rage, the bleeding had stopped.

Remember above when I said I wasn't going to tell you about near-death kitchen failures? I lied. A little. Because this didn't happen this year, but like 16 months ago and I said I wasn't going to tell you about knife wounds from this year. And I didn't.