I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this before, but I’m a bit of a klutz. Sure, I’ve improved some over the years, but I still have moments when I do something so completely graceless and goofy, I hang my head in shame.
Last year, I believe I nearly poked my eye out while putting on mascara. This year, it was something vastly different, which brings me to the title of this post.
Like most kids, I was into everything. Um, okay, so I was like 12 when I had my most stupid moment. You see, I was the adored older sister and cousin of three impressionable children. They looked up to me being six years older than them and much wiser. And like the good cousin I am, I was magnanimous enough to help them when they captured some butterflies.
I remember it so clearly, probably because of shock. Phillip, Jenny, and Laura (all born within 15 months of each other), had caught some butterflies and wanted to keep them alive. So I had the bright idea to make them a container to place their helpless pets in. I had the lid of a butter container in mind and thought, Well, the poor things are going to need air, so I’ll cut some holes in the lid. With this plan in mind, I put the lid in the palm of my hand, grabbed a steak knife and began to puncture holes in it.
You see where this is going, right? I missed my thumb and index finger because they were far apart, but when I went to puncture a hole in the lid a second time, the knife sliced into my middle finger. Now my first thought was Oh my God, I cut my finger off! I tossed the lid and looked down. No blood. How could there be no blood? I turned my hand and there it was: the cut. It had gone down to the bone and I could see it. I might’ve felt a bit faint, but for the most part, I was fascinated. Where was the blood? Seriously, where was it! Of course, the blood came eventually and I had to hear a lecture from my mom about playing Russian roulette (I didn’t even know what that was) and how crazy could I be to stab myself!
It’s been at least twenty-two years since that incident and I’ve learned not to allow myself near sharp objects unless I have to. Yes, I cook and chop and slice…food, but I’m very careful now. I thought I was finally over the accident-proneness that plagued my childhood. Then something happened last night that I’m still not sure how it happened.
I was about to cut up some bananas for my nightly meal replacement shake. I was grooving and moving and grabbed a small knife from the dish rack. I pulled it out, but somehow (I think one of those Greek gods I write about might have had something to do with this), somehow the knife flipped end over end towards me. I managed to grab it before I stabbed myself in the spleen, but I didn’t escape completely. No, I have an inch long scrape on my side. Basically, I almost shanked myself. *sigh* My nephews are going to love this story.
If the knife had gone in, how would I have explained this at the ER? Well, you see, I was chopping bananas and I’m pretty sure the Greek god Hermes might’ve decided to play a prank on me by making me throw the knife at myself. What? No, seriously! I have no compulsions to hurt myself. I don’t like pain and avoid it as much as possible. What? Oh that? Um, well my brother stepped on my finger when I was 10…um, that scar was from my bed frame. Er…I swear that scar is completely innocent unless you believe a cat can be possessed by the Devil. Really! Wait, what are you putting in that syringe??
Yeah, so I’m glad the knife didn’t go in my body. Of course, now I’ll have to get someone else to chop my food for me. Sharp objects + Danica = blood and scars.