When I was around eleven years old (could have been ten, could have been twelve), I went over to the Klein's house to play for the afternoon. Nothing special about heading over, except that just before I went over, I made the decision to head over without shoes. It was summer. It was beautiful outside. We often ran around barefoot, so this wasn't a particularly important decision. But, I do remember consciously making the decision not to wear shoes.
Well, at some point in that afternoon, we all went running outside. I think we were running to the Gleason's house, which had been the Brickley's house when I lived in the neighborhood, but I'm not sure about exactly where we were going.
We all ran outside through the carport, around the side yard, and over the gravel driveway. Halfway across the driveway, I stopped running and started screaming. I then turned around and ran back into the house, dripping blood as I went. I had stepped on a broken bottle, the top part around the neck, as I was running over the gravel, and cut a serious chunk out of my foot.
Tragically, when I ran back into the house, I ran straight into the livingroom (the livingroom with the light tan carpeting), putting spots of blood where I stepped.
Mary looked at the cut, and recommended stitches. Poor Jenny had to clean up the blood spots. I resisted stitches, and struggled for the next month to let the cut heal, since I was inclined to run around and not stay off the foot.
If I had made the other choice that day, to wear shoes instead of going barefoot, I wouldn't have the scar on my foot that I have today. An inconsequential decision with larger ramifications than it should have.
Kinda like today's decision.
I had signed up mid last week for throwing practice today, and figured I'd head over with Kris and the girls, and just return home with the girls a little bit later. I was still feeling icky from the fever/flu thing that started on Friday, and figured a walk would be good, but full-on ultimate would be bad.
As I was getting ready, I put on shorts and debated whether or not to put on pants. I put on exercise pants probably 95% of the time I head out to play ultimate or go throw, so deciding not to put them on was deciding on the exception.
Kris was walking the dogs, and I was carrying the bag of discs, when the dogs fell behind. We kept walking and before the leashes went taut, Kris encourged the dogs to catch up. Normally, they run along the outside of the walk, but this time, Bella ran along the inside where I was walking, as Annie ran along the outside.
As Bella ran past, I started screaming. "Aaaaaaaaaah! Owwwwww! Owwwwww! Owwwwww!" Kris looked at me in puzzlement as I tried to run in front of him. Finally realizing what was going on, he dropped the leashes. Too late.
The leash had grabbed a significant chunk of skin from the back of my knees, where it gave me a fire-burn as it zinged along. If I had chose to wear pants, I wouldn't be propped up in the living room, neosporin slathered on the back of my legs, wondering how such inconsequential decisions truly affect our lives.