Last week, I bragged about working from home and freedom from sick-day policies.
Oh, that karma. She’s one for handing out lessons, isn’t she?
So I walked through the bedroom door, still springing from 80s dance music, and WHAM. The toe thing. Not the big toe, which has a three-second gap between OMG and actual pain. No, the baby toe. No pain gap with the baby toe. Just instant lightning bolts to the brain’s pain center; then throbbing-burning-aching-swelling-turning colors.
Then came the swearing, words I never wanted my daughter to hear from me. She should learn those things from the bus stop or her father.
So the toe is swollen and gross, and since I realize readers might be enjoying breakfast, description shall cease.
When you work from your home office-closet, you get sick days galore. But no workers comp.
And, yes, I was an author at work. Dancing to an awful 80s tune with my daughter is basic research into the behaviors and preferences of my readers.
If my toe is broken, can I write off the medical bill on my taxes? Or is that an invitation for more karma, the nasty karma that brings tax audits?
Hmmm … ice and Advil. Karma’s cure.