I have decided, my next tattoo is going to be of nine black cats with red stamps through all but one of them. The series of bad luck lives on and once again I have hurt myself in a way that is slightly hilarious and horrible for my self-esteem. Let me break it down
It was a dark and stormy Tuesday night. My husband was on night shifts so I was alone in the ghost house with a zombie (11 year old girl with an iPhone totally counts) The skeletons were stacking pretty high in my bedroom closet so I decided it was time to move them up to the top shelf so I was no longer tripping over them. And by “skeletons” I really mean “pants” but if you know me, either is possible.
I was being very responsible and went to grab an actual step-stool instead of just stacking things and monkeying up like I normally would. I probably could have been slightly more responsible and not have grabbed the plastic one that the girls had cracked forever ago by jumping on it. Hind sight is 20/20. *insert awkward shrug* Meh.
I did not even manage to get one pair of jeans on that shelf. I put my right foot on it and shifted my weight to lift the other when I felt the “pop”. It’s funny how the world really does go into slow motion when you know something bad is about to happen but have no ability to stop it. I looked down right as I was placing my left foot on the edge of the stool. The same edge the “pop” had come from and now was letting out a sharp crack. I got to watch as that thing gave out and I crumpled down onto that plastic lettuce knife that materialized where the round corner had been.
I sat on the floor and that sweet little stool folded up like it was a kitten taking a nap. Just lying there like nothing happened, the smug thing appeared completely fine. It had done its job and was ready to be put away. My left leg on the other hand was telling a slightly different story. The really good cuts take a minute for your brain to recognize how bad they are. You tend to get a few seconds to analyze the gash before they fill with blood. I got enough time to look at my tendon; flex it, bend it, twist it a little. I thought “that’s so cool looking! Dang I’m lucky I didn’t hit an artery!” That was the Que. The thing started filling up with blood! I grabbed a clean black sock that was in my overnight bag on the floor of the closet. Using that, I held it shut as I hobbled to the master bathroom. I have never been more grateful for hardwood floors!!!!
At least I had paper towels and coban in there. I made the quickest pressure dressing ever and hopped to the laundry room to grab my emergency hiking kit. (Don’t ask me why it was in the laundry room, I have a squirrel brain but sometimes it comes in handy) Time to check if I’m still good at tying suture knots. I plopped down in my shower to find out the answer was “no”. Not sure if it was the years of not practicing, or the adrenaline making me shake, but the first 2 looked like a toddler tried making mommy a present. Yeeeeeaaaaaah, not hanging those ones on the fridge. Ewww, little globs of fat are popping out (definitely not putting those back in. I might have accidentally squeezed a few more out) Screw it! I’m going full Jack and Sally and just doing a continuous loop for the rest of it! Let’s throw a buttload of SteriStrips on there for good measure.
Sweet, all done and only took me half an hour and two dozen gagging moments. Anyone that has ever gotten to feel nylon pulled through an open wound knows why I was gagging. That is one of the most sickening feelings ever! Time to take some pictures and then go pick up the boy from rehearsals. Pat on the back for get through all of that without making my upstairs look like a murder scene or disturbing the mindless zombie that is prone to panic attacks.
Because I am female and have been lied to enough of my life I busted out a tape measure the next day at work. I now know, with 100% certainty, what 7 ½ inches looks like. I also know that is does hurt. A small part of me hopes it leaves a gnarly scar, then I can get ruler marks tattooed on it later on.
I did make sure my husband knew that this was completely his fault. The butthead was hoarding the step stool that had a high weight capacity. I don’t really think it matters that he weighs closer to 300 pounds than I do. OBVIOUSLY the stool that only hold 250 was not nearly enough for my butt. Talk about a self-esteem killer.
P.S. apparently we also need a new scale too, because this one lies…..
It's just Rya 