I normally consider myself a somewhat dextrous person. Maybe not graceful, but at least passable when it comes to handling dangerous objects, like machetes or flaming torches. (Can’t say I’ve juggled chainsaws, but get a few drinks in me and I’ll think I can.)
Common household objects, on the other hand, are something else entirely. It’s only 9:00 am, and already I’ve fell victim to the following:[ul][li]While opening a can of tuna to make a sandwich for today’s lunch, I cut my left thumb on the underside of the first joint. Blinded by pain and flailing in agony, I knocked the can of tuna on the floor. Enraged by the can’s audacity in attacking me, my dog started eating the tuna that fell on the floor in order to ensure that it wouldn’t harm me again.[]In the bathroom moments later, as I opened the medicine cabinet to get bandaids, the industrial-strength bottle of ibuprofen fell out, smacked against the sink, popped the cap off, and disgorged its contents across me, into the sink, into the bathtub, and generally distributed nearly five hundred tablets throughout the room. Enraged by the ibuprofen’s audacity in attacking me, my dog lunged forward and almost started eating the tablets. I managed to herd him into the bedroom, close the door, bandage my thumb, and clean up the mess.[]Arriving at work at 7:00 am, I opted for a cup of coffee, which is out of the ordinary for me. I found the pot nearly empty, so I drained the remainder, dumped the grounds, washed the pot, put a new filter in, tore open a new bag, filled the filter, put the filter+grounds back into the machine, and even remembered to put the pot under the spout. I was a little apprehensive about my ability to successfully manage this, but through sheer serendipity, it all came together. I paused and let the pot brew, and talked to a coworker, telling her my sad tale of woe this morning. She was less than sympathetic – I could tell from the hysterical laughter. She left, I poured myself a cup of coffee, but poured too much, spilled hot coffee on my hand and bandaged thumb, yelped, and dropped the full cup onto the floor. Despite the soul-crushing nature of the day so far, I offered a weak thanks that at least my dog wasn’t around.Nearly beaten down but still proud, I returned to my desk sans coffee, except for the faint odor from my left hand. My desk is not the most organized work surface around - not the least, surely, but out of eighteen square feet of desk space in my decently-large cubicle, I have precisely two square feet free. Out of a misguided desire to look professional, I began clearing away piles of paper. (Uhm, all work-related, I swear. Just ignore that … and that … and that.) While tossing away various siteflow diagrams, highlighted-n-scribbled-n-doodled snippets of code, phone extensions, and bug ticket IDs, a piece of paper that was not mine and had no business being on my desk leapt up and slashed my left hand in the webbing between thumb and hand. Fear not, I took out my anger on that piece of paper, and it paid the ultimate price for its impudence. However, I soon learned that applying a bandaid to that spot on a hand is less than successful.[/ul]I’m a little apprehensive, I must admit, and am considering taking the rest of the day off. At this rate, I’ll lose an eye by noon, be paralyzed from the waist down at 2:00 pm, and be on a respirator by the end of the workday.[/li]
On the other hand, succumbing to those injuries while on the job is a certain way to qualify for workman’s comp, so back to the grind I go.
