I will not die a single woman’s death.

I flat out reject this fate with every fiber in my being.

Still, just to be on the safe side, I have adopted various protective measures that I hope will keep me connected with an outside world that enjoys constant accountability via coupledom. To wit: I will never meet my maker all alone after getting trapped beneath a pile of cats who might be the only other occupants of my apartment. That’s not gonna happen. I’m not a cat person- and besides I do a fair job of letting people know that I still have a pulse at regular intervals in the week. This is just something that we single people do. Or maybe it’s just single women.

Forget killer cats; I give you Limonata. Enlarged here to highlight its imposing and lethal stature- because sometimes you just don’t see the threat inherent in everyday consumables.

Apologies if I offended you cat lovers in the opening, because truthfully you can’t account for every peril that has the potential to take you down a few notches in the span of seconds.

Crash! Limonata bottles shatter. Suddenly it’s the Italian Molotov Cocktail for clumsy people. Lemon, angry carbonation and glass- meet my unprotected leg.

Post smash, this is how things appear as the feeling drifts out of my foot and I limp my way to my apartment. My shoe is feeling slippy and I am guessing that it’s Limonata swishing around. That’s what I’m telling myself.

Quickly my bathroom starts to look like a crime scene. I need to rinse my leg and then find an old towel that I won’t mind soiling with this inconvenient blood. You can tell I’m probably gonna be okay if I still care about ruining my nice, fluffy towels.

But I don’t wanna take a look and see how bad it is. Isn’t someone here to do this for me? I’m starting to feel sick to my stomach, and really hating the fact that there’s nobody around. Not even a rescue cat.

I think I’m maybe okay- but I can’t be sure. Just in case, I shakily punch up the number of a nearby (single) friend. When she answers and asks what’s wrong, that’s why I realize that all of this has scared me and I’m crying. She’s on her way to my rescue, and then I start to backtrack and think that this maybe just needs a Band-Aid. I try to downplay it via text, since I can’t really use calm, measured words right now. My leg is propped up on my entryway table as I do all of this. Then I make my way to her car.

Did I tell you that this post might be a little graphic? Now’s as good a time as any to put in that little disclaimer.

I was hoping for a Band-Aid, but instead Rescue Friend announces that she’s driving me the ER, “because your leg shouldn’t be sticking out like that.” I’m grateful that I’m no longer alone in my apartment, bleeding all over my carpet with a mash of paper towel that was favored over my nice bath towels.

As I’m given my bracelet, the receptionist tells me to have a nice day. The fact that I find her suggestion highly comical shows that all will not be lost today. But it still hurts like a mofo.

I gimp back to ER stall and wait to be X-Rayed. Even though I’m not super chatty, divine providence allows that my X-Ray tech hails from Fall River and he’s a Bruins fan. We talk Stanley Cup playoffs in between my crying as his moves around my leg. I’m a wuss. We shall revisit this later.

Getting ready to poke around for souvenir Limonata glass. I may come from a family of nurses and first responders, but I am not one of them. I have no interest in participating in this portion of the treatment.

I told you it was a little graphic. At this stage I’m texting my goalie brother and he’s telling me: “A hockey player would have pulled out the glass with pliers and taped it up.” I can’t find any reason to disagree. I’m grateful he’s making me laugh as I’m back here by myself.

Don’t you hate when someone feels it necessary to detail a medical procedure in gruesome detail- especially while you’re eating? Yeah, me too.

When I’ve been bandaged and given my fill of pain meds, the hospital returns me to semper fidelis Rescue Friend. Taking into consideration the fact that I am not going to lose my leg and heeding my brother’s advice that, “It’s the playoffs! Toughen up!”- I decide that a little lingering numbness is a fair trade for cheating solitary death up in my concrete high rise.

I’m dropped off back at home and left to clean up my own mess. Again, the price of singledom. No one else is going to scrub my perfectly good shoe in the hopes of wearing it again on the next adventure in living.

Exhale. And here we have it- right back where I was just two hours earlier. Now with a makeshift icing operation in full swing.

I live to fight another day. Armed with friends who’ll look out for me and operating with the unshakable certitude that I will never adopt a cat, and I will also never buy a six pack of San Pellegrino Limonata ever again.