The Most Dangerous Game

For those of you thinking that I will now start to describe how I started hunting shipwrecked humans on my private island or a particularly intense game of Monopoly, I'm sorry to disappoint.

I'm talking about the waiting game. These past couple weeks have been a series of highs and lows. It was lovely to get to see almost everyone I hold dear, but outside of that, all the packing and the buying, buying, buying was hellacious.

On Friday morning, the tension came to a head. I woke up at 7:15 am to the dulcet tones of my neighbor's carpool blaring their horn at which point I rolled over, which my dog, Faye, took as a cue to come over and harass me. I gave in after a few minutes of cussing and groaning. I got up, did my business, brushed my teeth and got dressed. While I let Faye out, I took out some more recycling from the night before and watered my newly planted hydrangeas. We both went inside and she had some breakfast. I decided I wasn't hungry yet and felt productive.

I started tidying up my apartment - got the dirty dishes into the sink, hung up damp towels, got the laundry in a pile to to be transferred to the basket (once the clean clothes were put away), etc. Then I decided that I should start going through my Peace Corps goodies my mother got me to get some of the packaging gone. I consolidated a few boxes of pills (mostly Immodium, so I can go from shitting my pants to not at all) and was feeling pretty good.

Then I moved on to the kitchen stuff. Took a tag off a spatula and another off some silicone hot pads (gifts for the host family).

Then I decided to remove the packaging from the knives. We all know where this is going and the tension is building. The stupid teenager decided to get something from the basement in the horror movie despite the flickering bulb and the "weird" smell. Knife number one was a cinch. Knife number two was a little trickier. I held the handle in my left hand and the scissors in my right. Using only dull pink scissors and my razor sharp wit, I would open that knife!

Why, no! Those are not stylish rings!

All of a sudden, the knife cover disappears and blood droplets are falling from the air. Actually they are falling from my hand! AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! Pressure on the wound! (Thank god for Girl Scouts)

I seize a towel from my living room floor that was somehow miraculously missed in my tidying frenzy. I think: I need to go to the ER stat! I find my keys. I go outside. I attempt to lock the door. Then, I remember that I'll need my ID to sign in. I go inside and find my purse, which I weirdly wear around my neck.

It occurs to me suddenly that I am a well-documented hypochondriac. How embarrassing would it be for me to go to the ER to get stitches, when all I really need is a couple of Muppets bandaids? I lift the towel. Nope! Definitely need to go to the ER.

After a million point turn, I go to the hospital, where after I confirm that I have not been attacked and that my fingers are definitely still attached (twice), I receive 8 shots of lidocaine and 16 stitches (4 per finger).

Learning to eat politely, brush my teeth and dress myself with my left hand have been an experience so far, but I can say that I put on a real bra and cut up ravioli, so I consider myself a success as a human.