Last night I was finishing up a fresh green salad to accompany our lasagna, and I chiffonaded the basil. It was a loose chiffonade roll, and the knife bounced.
I knew the second that bad boy bounced my left pointer finger was in trouble. You know that feeling, right before something ridiculous happens. And then it happens, and you wait for a sec because you have a moment before a: the blood starts, and b: the pain starts. And then both happen. And you assess.
Usually, if you're me, there may be a bad word dropped. Because I was raised by pirates. And carry on the tradition, proudly. Ahem.
Anyway, there was blood, followed by pain. I managed to (almost) carve a crescent out of the top of my poor finger. It was a flap that I calmly pressed back onto the exposed finger, rinsed, held up above my head (wrapped in a paper towel) and dropped the f bomb. Hubby, about to jump in the shower, came trotting out into the kitchen, armed with a basket of bandaids, rendered first aid, then went to shower. Like he was some sort of semi-nude medic and this was no biggie, just part of any day.
Easy peasy, right?
So I've changed the bandage twice now, since I've managed to, in spite of attempting to protect it by holding said finger up stiffly and away from whatever I've been working on, get it wet. And both times I've broken the clot free due to the sticky bandage. That part hurts. And then there's the blood. Again.
In all fairness, it's not a lot, but it's still needing the clot to mind its business and heal.
So, today has been a day of awkward shower/hair washing/leg shaving/lotion application/mascara application. And I've been slower than I'd like, so there's that.
I decided, since the whole wearing the glove in the shower thing didn't work, I'd do something better. I'd enter the modern age and wrap it up. It's what is called a finger cot but actually, if I'm not mistaking, looks a whole lot like a finger condom.
Have a great evening!
Hugs,
Stevie
Comments
Post a Comment