Pieces of Me (Part I)

WARNING: This posting is a detailed account of a painful injury I that I inflicted on my hand. If you cringe easily at the mention of blood, you might want to skip this posting.


If you look closely at my left index finger, you can see a white splotch about the size of a pencil eraser. This splotch is a scar -- one so thick that I can no longer feel sensation with the tip of my finger. Once, while sewing, I accidentally pushed a needle into my fingertip and did not notice until I looked down upon my hand.

This is the story about how I got that scar; how, one day, I went to school and sliced off my entire fingertip as neatly and as cleanly as you'd slice the top off a ripe strawberry.

One morning when I was in fifth grade, a large box arrived on my family's porch. Looking for goodies, I picked up the box and tore into it. Inside, I found a variety of stainless steel scissors with orange handles. I picked out the smallest pair and made a few quick snips through the air. As the metal ends opened and slid back together, they made a bright and satisfying "zing." I loved it. I stuffed the scissors into my backpack and dashed to school.

That day, the class project was to cut shapes from sheets of paper that we would use to decorate the classroom. I excitedly took out my new pair of scissors. I took a sheet in my left hand and held it with my thumb on the top side and the forefinger was underneath. I started snipping.

I only knew I had cut myself when I felt the cold steel brush against the skin. The scissors were so sharp that I hadn't felt any resistance in the handles. The metal edges sliced through my finger with no more effort than it took to cut through the paper. Zing. I looked down and saw the round, peach colored fingertip where it landed on my desk. The blood drained from my face. I looked at my hand.

I had sheared off so much skin, I exposed the bright, red muscle of my finger. My muscle twitched, like it was bewildered by the light it should never see. Blood began to seep out and run over the thick rim of skin around the muscle. I screamed and ran to the class sink to wash the wound. This was a mistake. The cold water on my raw muscle caused excruciating pain, and I shook my hand, sending droplets of blood splattering in the sink, on the walls, on the floor, and on myself.

From the sink I ran to my teacher to ask for a pass to the nurse's office. One would think my teacher might have prepared one during this time or commanded me to run there right away; however, though a lovely, well-meaning woman, she was not a person of decisive action. I stood there at least a minute and a half, dripping blood onto my shoes, as she fumbled with her desk to find one and fill it out. Pass in hand, I sprinted down the stairs and down the hall to the school nurse.

I hoped as I ran, that the school nurse would be the end of the ordeal -- that she'd hear my frantic footfalls and meet me at the door, ready to leap to action with anesthetics and bandages in hand. Of course, it didn't happen that way. The avalanche of moron tax that I set in motion when I picked up those scissors was still gaining speed.

to be continued...

Suffering for Beauty

It's fair to say that I have no idea how to dress up properly. I can button shirts and pants with reasonable accuracy, but I am at a loss with formal attire. Half my wardrobe is made of fleece, and I tuck in my shirt no more than twice a year. I haven't worn pantyhose for over 5 years.

My brother's wedding was one of the rare times that I did dress up. For the occasion, I decided to splurge on a pair of gold, high-heeled sandals. The shoes were fashionable and even sexy, but they were also far out of my league. The shoes were no more than a few thin straps glued to a short plank with a pencil for a heel. You needed the balance of a mountain goat to wear those things. When I wore them, I tottered like a new-born calf missing two of its legs.

When it came time, then, to walk down the stairs of the church to join the wedding ceremony, I can honestly say that I had a good idea what was going to happen. I was only surprised that I didn't trip until I was four steps down from the top. On the fourth step, my left heel skidded under me just as I shifted my weight to that foot. I crashed down on my left side, awkwardly bending my left foot beneath me. I heard something pop and people gasp. Momentum (+ gravity) carried me down the remaining stairs. As those were the only shoes I had with me, I had to put them back on and wear them for the rest of the wedding and the reception afterward.

The photo is a picture of my injured foot after several hours of standing on it. At this point, it had swollen so much that it could not longer comfortably fit into those gold heels. If you look closely, you can see where the straps of the shoes pressed into my foot

Bathroom Follies

I often make the mistake of waiting too long before heading to the bathroom. Typically, I get so engrossed with what I'm doing that I barely notice that I'm shifting from side to side or sitting awkwardly on my leg to put off the inevitable. Then, suddenly, the bladder signals the brain that its load has hit critical mass, and I sprint for the bathroom with all deliberate speed. I burst through the door, fumble frantically with the latch, then tear down my zipper with less than two seconds to spare. Crisis narrowly averted.

During my second week at a new job, I was sprinting to the bathroom in a mad rush. When I get to the bathroom, I find there's a line (oh god). After a few, highly uncomfortable moments, the extra-wide handicap-accessible stall is freed (thank god), and I run in. As usual, I fumble with the lock, then rush to the toilet. Because I fumble with the lock, I don't properly align the lock mechanism with the door. As I'm sitting on the toilet with my pants undone, I see the door begin to slip from the latch. Because the door is several feet away -- further than my reach -- I can't do anything to stop it. Before I can breathlessly utter "Oh...no..," the door swings wide open, and I see, to my horror, that that there's still a line of my co-workers in the bathroom and I've just exposed myself to them all.


* I felt like I needed to add in a picture of a toilet to go with the theme of today's post. The only picture I have on hand is this photo of a "squat toilet" from Taiwan which, for all practical purposes, is a kind of bathroom folly all on its own.