When accidents happen in books, the narrator usually slows down the plot, creating suspenseful buildup. When accidents happen in movies, the audience is forewarned by ominous music. In real life, accidents happen so fast you need a moment to regroup and make sure it actually happened.
Last night I decided to tear the skin of my thumb’s knuckle instead of grating the block of sharp Parmesan in my hand.
Not one of my better decisions.
Thankfully, the lasagna I was making was ready for the oven and didn’t need any more of my attention. The worse rub, though, is that it didn’t even turn out to taste that great. It’s actually a little dry. While not awful, it definitely is not worth a piece of my skin!
I, as many know, am just a big baby when it comes to injuries, however small. So after bandaging my thumb with two Band-aids (and loosening them after my thumb started to turn purple), I sank onto our couch with a carton of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream and cued up Netflix.
When my husband got home from work, he wanted to know all sorts of ludicrous questions like if I disinfected the cut or at least ran it under water. (He did not ask if I bled into the lasagna. Apparently he trusts me that much!) Of course I didn’t clean the cut! After initially glancing at the tiny blood soak patch of skin peeling away, I immediately patched up my “owie” and attempted to ignore the throbbing pain and amount of red stain spreading through the brown Band-aid. I haven’t seen the cut since. I made John clean and change my “bandages” before bed while I sat on edge of our bathtub, face averted like a scared toddler.
You wouldn’t think a tiny, surface-level scratch would hurt so bad! Hubby’s theory is that, while a knife wound slits deep, it slits narrow. A cheese grater, on the other hand, covers a larger surface area, brutalizing more nerves which have proceeded to scream their discomfort at me all morning. I have learned something new about myself: I drink my coffee left-handed. It’s such an unconscious habit now that I never realized until grabbing my mug in a fist constrained against an unbending Band-aid and pained nerves. Remembering to use my right hand always comes too late. It’s the first time in my recollection that I’ve legitimately weighed my desire for a sip of joe against the effort of obtaining it.