So, yeah, I punctured the water line behind the shed (see yesterday's post if you're not clear what I'm talking about). Kind of sucky but could happen to anyone, right?
Turns out that it is actually more likely to happen to me. Because me? I've turn into a Grade A Clutz.
In my early teens, late tweens, I was clutzy. My parents told me often. I remember one night carrying my plate into the kitchen from the eating area whispering to myself "don't drop it, don't drop it." What did I do? I dropped that sucker. The plate was full of gravy. It went all over the floor and, if I remember correctly, my shirt. I'd been holding it with two hands. How does that happen?
Well, things improved as time went on. I don't fall down much. I don't really get hurt all that much. I don't trip too often.
Until the last couple of months. I drop lids and glasses and plates all the time. I trip on things outside. I wipe out.
I'm starting to hurt myself. Like a couple of weeks ago when I sliced through the end of my left pinky finger through the nail and into the flesh. I ended up losing half my nail. Gross.
And then tonight. And it wasn't even anything I could control. It's now to the point that if something is going to happen to someone, something random and freaky, it will most definitely be me so if you're in my vicinity you'll definitely be fine but you might want 911 on speed dial for my sake.
John and I were putting the dishes away. One of those super heavy Bunnikins plate/bowl jobbies slipped out of the cupboard (somehow) and fell from a decent height onto the countertop below. Where my fingers were sitting. My pinky finger on my right hand. The pain was unbelievable. I couldn't talk except for to scream NO I'M NOT OKAY. I glanced at my throbbing finger that seemed to be screaming at me and I could see the blood pooling under the finger nail at its base. This was within 5 seconds of the incident. OMG did it hurt. And this is from a woman who had 20 hours of back labour.
A few minutes later I was sitting on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on my finger begging the girls to stop talking to Mummy because SHE JUST COULDN'T TALK RIGHT NOW. Or read stories for that matter.
And yet, I am managing to type because that's the kind of giver I am.
Long story short, Murphy is living in my house and applying his laws willy nilly all over the place.