Yesterday I attended to Pending Laundry Projects and washed several cotton sweaters that had to be treated with a greater measure of care and respect than I am usually inclined to give to things I am washing. I dutifully snatched them out of the washer the moment the "delicate" cycle gave its discreet beep; I put them in the dryer on "fluff" just long enough to shake any incipient wrinkles out of them; and then I eased them onto heavy-duty hangers so I could hang them up to dry the rest of the way. I hung them in my spare master bedroom closet (oh, such Neronian luxury, to have two closets!) and left the closet door open to encourage air circulation.
Of course I forgot I'd done this, and when I got up this morning, blind as I always am prior to putting my contact lenses in, I didn't see the open closet door and ran full-tilt into it with quite a bit of force, as I am not the sort of person who gets up and then shuffles around lazily trying to dispel the mists of sleep: either I am up and at 'em, or I am down and not at 'em. Fortunately most of the force of contact was taken by my foot (as opposed to, say, my face) and secondarily by my shoulder; the unexpectedness of the encounter threw me off balance and I fell backward onto the floor, to the amazement of my cats, one of whom came over to helpfully sit on my chest while I gasped in surprise, wondering if I'd broken something in my foot, because it sure felt like I had.
After a few long moments I got up cautiously and gingerly examined my foot, coming to the conclusion that I might have broken a toe, but as I understand it, there's nothing to be done about that anyway, except to be careful and limp, which I proceeded to do. I was a bit dazed from the accident; it took me a moment to realize that due to the slightly illogical wiring of my brain, the conclusion I will inevitably draw from this misfortune will not be that I should have closed the door before going to bed -- but rather, that it is dangerous to do laundry.