Last Friday began like any other. After a busy day of work and running errands, I began to ponder the age-old question, "What should I do this Friday night?" It is the 4th of July weekend so many of my friends are out of town. My significant other is traveling. I wasn't aware of any fun activities in the city. Then, in a moment of brilliance, I realized the answer to my quandary.
A glass of wine and a bubble bath! *Or as I like to call it at my ripe old age of 25, a Friday night rager.
After running across the street to purchase the bottle of wine, I proceeded into my kitchen and pulled out a corkscrew from the top drawer. With care and precision, I placed the point of the corkscrew into the cork and screwed the opener into place. Once the screw was fully inserted, and without a moment's hesitation, I put my hands on the wings of the corkscrew and pushed down to extract the cork from the bottle.
Everything should have gone smoothly, except for one small detail, I hadn't cleared my thumb out of the way of the screw before pushing down the lever. The result? Catching the pad of my thumb in the corkscrew. Immediately pain shot up my hand, and I said some things of which I am not proud.
Whoever said, "You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up" clearly never saw me around blood, or they would have ruled out doctor very quickly. I looked down at my hand and saw a few drops of blood. The world started spinning.
I don't care how old I get, when something like this happens, I immediately will revert to a small child and call my parents. In between pouring myself the glass of wine (which I definitely deserved after this headache) and frantically dialing the phone with my good hand, my parents picked up.
I started the conversation normally enough, "Hey Mom, how are you?"
After listening to her answer, I slowly transitioned into the topic at hand. "So I want you to remember this moment any time you think, 'My daughter is so grown up. I wish she still needed me.' I need you. I hurt my hand opening a bottle of wine."
To my parent's credit, they took it in stride, probably due to hearing about incidents of my clumsiness on a glaringly frequent basis.
"Go to your fridge and get an ice pack (or as we call it, 'ouch mouse')," My mom informed me.
"I don't have an ice pack...I have frozen chicken...I have frozen batteries! Will that work if I wrap it in a paper towel?"
My parents coached me through it, complete with a "Call us later so we know you didn't die."
And thus, lying on the floor of my studio apartment with my legs elevated and my thumb tightly clutching a battery wrapped in a paper towel, that is how I spent my Friday evening.
I currently live alone, so I was spared the embarrassment of having a third-party walk in and witness my shame. I was able to lick my wounds in peace, but it also meant having to take care of myself. In recollecting the event to two of my friends, it produced this jewel of wisdom.
After two hours of lying down and icing my hand, I finally summoned the strength to get up and collect my bounty, the glass of wine which had caused me so much grief and suffering. The worst part of it all? It was a three-dollar bottle of wine.
What can I say? I like to whine a little, and wine a lot all at the same time.