For the first time since...March? Literally for the first time since March, I have an errand to run today. I need to go to the library—to drop off our books that are due, to pick out new books, and to drop off our ballots (seriously, VOTE, guys!)—and this time I checked and they're not closed to the public (unlike the last time I was going to run an errand but then didn't). So I put on a nice outfit today—jeans and a (new!) shirt that I go on clearance in the early spring when we were buying new flip flops from Old Navy for Rachel and wanted free shipping but didn't want to spend enough money on flip flops to qualify for free shipping (like, may as well buy a shirt, right?), but which was on clearance because it was from the winter collection (it has long sleeves) so I hadn't had an opportunity to wear it until now.
Part of me was like, "Why wear a nice shirt? It's just going to get dirty/stained/ruined!" because motherhood is a, uh, messy affair, okay? But then I was like, "It does me no good just sitting in the closet waiting to be worn and I'm going in public today." So wearing a nice shirt is completely justified. Right?
Guys, the shirt already has a snag in it and I don't know how. Ugh.
This is why I can't have nice things.
Not that $10 shirt from Old Navy are "nice things," necessarily but, I mean, like, they aren't swag t-shirts from races long-since run, right? So in those terms, they qualify as "nice."
Anyway, there I am, looking elegant in the kitchen—still barefoot—putting away some dishes.
I see the glass measuring cup Andrew left to dry, balancing on the edge of the counter and it registers in my mind that that's kind of a precarious place for it to be left. And I will totally put it away next, right after I put away this big bowl I'm holding. The bowl is also glass and I have to reach up high to put it away and then...I don't know quite how it happened...
Did my shirt catch in the handle of the measuring cup and pull it down? Did I knock it somehow?
Whatever the case the measuring cup fell off the counter and crashed—a very short distance later—onto the InstantPot liner that was in the dishwasher, shattering into a million pieces, sending shards of glass everywhere.
Very luckily I was alone in the kitchen.
Very luckily the measuring cup landed on the InstantPot and not on the lovely line of plates, neatly arranged in the dishwasher directly beside the InstantPot.
Very unluckily I found that I had been directly in the line of fire of all that glittering shrapnel. I stood still for a moment, taking stock of my situation.
"What happened?" a handful of curious faces peeped around the doorway.
"STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN!" I ordered. "I broke something glass. There's glass all over. It's very sharp."
Shards of glass were imbedded in my feet and ankles.
And somehow the bottom of my big toe was sliced open.
I limped upstairs to the first aid kit, being so careful not to drip any blood on the floor (but at the same time definitely dripping blood on the floor) and found Andrew just coming out of the bathroom.
"What...happened?" he asked.
"You know that measuring cup that you left balanced on the very edge of the counter," like, not to point fingers or anything, but... "I knocked it off somehow. There's glass everywhere but I haven't cleaned it up yet because..."
"I will clean up the glass," he offered. "You...take care of this."
This? This...bloody mess that is me?
So I carefully pick the glass out of my feet and work to stop my toe from bleeding, but no matter how much direct pressure I apply to that darn toe, my hands keep coming away covered in blood. How? So I apply some more pressure to my toe, certain that it will stop bleeding soon. And, indeed, from the looks of the tissue it seems the toe has largely stopped bleeding (though in all fairness it has since soaked through the bandaid I put on). My hands are still dripping with blood though. Why?
Turns out a flying piece of glass also somehow sliced open my middle finger and since I hadn't treated that wound whatsoever it was still just, you know, gushing blood all over the place.
Strangely, my finger doesn't hurt at all even though it has the longest cut, while my feet certainly feel like they were attacked by flying bits of glass (just that wind-whipped feeling, you know, a slight stinging, like when snow or sand flies into your face...only this was glass flying into my feet).
So now, aside from the snag in my shirt and oozing wounds, I'm ready to take on the world. The actual outside world. So wish me luck!
PS. Andrew, who so gallantly helped me clean up the glass from the floor (and from inside the dishwasher), knelt on a piece of glass while he was cleaning up and it pierced his skin (through his pants!) and he had no idea. We only noticed the blood-prints on the floor and had to hunt around to see who was bleeding where. This pesky glass!