So the door is slamming shut on 2003 all around the world tonight, eh? Well, it was a year of change in our family, and 2004 will be another one. We aren't in the same place we were a year ago, that's for sure. And neither is the world, although I'm not ready to say the world is better off. I'm pretty sure the family is.
However, I'm leaving 2003 behind with a big gash in the tip of the fourth finger on my right hand. Don't underestimate the power of a sharp knife to alter your perception of reality. All I wanted to do was brush off a bit of garlic that was stuck to the side of it, but I definitely approached it from the wrong angle. My finger barely touched the sharp edge, and yet here I am still bleeding a day later.
Oh, it's not serious, unless you think keeping all your blood inside your body is important. When I was putting the first band-aids on the cut last night, I managed to fling blood all over the bathroom as I tried to tear the wrapping off. Why do band-aids have to be wrapped so snugly that an injured person can't open them? And it took four of the suckers to cover the tiny wound. It's just not in the easiest place to put under wraps.
For someone who works at a desk on a computer, my hands are in water a lot. I didn't realize. I've always been obsessive about washing my hands, and lately my hands have been in dishwater literally dozens of times a day.
Well, maybe not literally. And maybe not dozens. But lots.
That's how it came to pass that I got up out of my chair last night and looked back to see the band-aids in it, still molded into the shape of my finger but without my finger in them. Then I looked at my finger and saw more blood bubbling up.
That was only the first time I had to change the dressing. See how easy it is to take a shower while trying to keep one finger (on your dominant hand) dry. It can't be done. You don't get much cleaning satisfaction out of it, and the finger gets wet anyway. And the dressing comes off and you have to put another one on
When I went out today, I thought (cleverly) to put my keys in the opposite pocket, so that I could reach in with my left hand to get them and not keep mangling the band-aids by all that activity with my right hand. I thought of it, and I did it, but I couldn't seem to remember to put the keys back in the left pocket every time I used them.
So either I had to reach across my body into my right pocket with my left hand, which is a weird thing to see someone do in the post office or the parking lot, or I had to keep scraping that finger every time I needed my keys. I suppose if I have to do things this way for another few days, I'll learn to deal. I'm hoping the status doesn't remain quo quite that long, though.
In fact, it's possible I'm not bleeding any more. When the dressing popped off the first time last night, I could tell it wasn't time to leave the finger out. I'll probably keep it covered until I run out of band-aids, which at the rate I'm going will be some time early in the new year. Then we'll see.
I might have to make a run to the drug store holding my bloody stump over the passenger seat of my beautiful new car, which will be one year old in two weeks and needs badly to be washed before the wedding next weekend. Obviously, I can't wash it in my current condition, though. That's fifty weeks in a row I've had an excuse. And counting.