A Day in the Life

Last Friday, I took a few photos of the back of my right hand.   I had just washed my hand and was wincing a little from the sting of the cold water on a few open wounds on my hand.  And it occurred to me that my hand was a perfect diary of the perfectly avoidable self-inflicted injuries that I go through in a week.  

On Monday, while reaching for an apple from the refrigerator, I took a circular hunk of flesh out of the knuckle on my middle finger.  Not only do I not know how I did it, I could not find the missing chunk of skin which is probably now fossilized in my fruit drawer.   

On Wednesday, I went to the bathroom at work and, as usual, went through my bathroom routine with all possible speed.  At some point, I whipped my hand into the sharp metal corner of the toilet paper holder.  The sharp corner stabbed my middle finger, just below the knuckle.  By the time I left the bathroom, I had a swollen, purple bruise about a quarter inch long.

On Thursday, I decided to sit on the couch and eat some yogurt.  While peeling back the foil on my yogurt cup, I fumbled the yogurt cup and, in recovering my grasp, cut my index finger on plastic rim.  The resulting gash was a quarter-inch long and bleeding.

In case you are wondering about that half-moon cut you see below my index finger, that's the scar from the gash I gave myself with a frying pan back in April.