I'll admit I have a certain flare for melodrama. When the mood or occasion strikes, Susan Lucci's got nothing on me. I'm sure with enough effort I could control this, but I usually just let it ride. I also tend to overreact. It's not my fault. My imagination works overtime to put together worst case scenarios in nearly any bad situation. It's just another piece in the vast, intricate puzzle that makes me me.
It had given no indication of how ruthless it could be! I didn't see it coming at all! For months it had sat completely complacent in the middle of the living room floor quite content to be used as a homework desk, foot stool, snack table and all of the other wonderful services coffee tables offer. It's only request in return was a daily dusting. We had a very good relationship for several months.
Then one fateful Sunday night, it happened. Along with the dramatic flare, I also have the uncanny ability to be a complete airhead at times. This isn't my fault either. I'm not sure who/what I blame, but I refuse to take responsibility for this flaw. I had assembled a very tasty chocolate cake on a whim and served it in the glass dish to my two awaiting boys. I placed the dish gingerly on top of the coffee table, a thick hand towel beneath. I doled out pieces of this delicious treat and we were enjoying it immensely when we heard a very loud POP! My husband and I looked at each other. He was obviously as confused as I was. After looking around the room and seeing nothing amiss, he lifted the cake. Down the middle of the table was a hairline crack. I had broken the coffee table. Later that night after beating myself up for hours (I loved that coffee table) the glass top made a temporary home on the front porch until it could be moved to the curb for recycling.
Two days later I decided it had to go. I had apparently only given it time to stew in it's own juices. I had no clue coffee tables retaliated when they were broken. I had assumed they simply accepted their fates and moved on to that big recycle bin in the sky. Boy, oh boy was I wrong!
The glass was thick and looked extremely sharp. I stood over it intending to pick it up with every ounce of care I had and move it with caution. I knew I had to put a bit of "umph" into it because of it's weight. I prepared myself to pick up the heavy object, reached down...and was suddenly bleeding.
Blood poured unchecked down my right middle finger and onto the porch. For a moment I was dumbfounded. It had happened so quickly and I felt none of it. The only indication of the table's attack was the red liquid that flowed freely. Snapping out of my stupor, I threw open the glass door and headed for the kitchen sink. I let water run over it for about 30 seconds trying to survey the damage when I realized it wasn't going to stop. I darted to the bathroom, grabbed a washcloth and put pressure on the cut that was still gushing.
What did I do next? Why, I updated my Facebook status, of course! "is bleeding...a lot!" After several comment conversations (resorting to chat speak because one handed typing is tedious) I called my husband at work.
I had long since realized that there was absolutely no pain, just blood. This led me to believe I had sliced a nerve. I had only known one person that had happened to and they ended up having to go to Louisville to get it sewn up. I couldn't do that! Who would get my son off the bus? What if they wanted to give me drugs (if you know me you know why I was worried about that)? Oh man! What if they had to take my fingernail to sew it up? That's really gonna hurt! I checked it again. Still bleeding. No amount of pressure was stopping it. I was going to completely bleed out from a cut inflicted by a piece of glass that didn't have the decency to just let things go! Crap! Why did I mess with that thing anyway?! Man, I really loved that coffee table.
My husband suggested elevating it and to call him back in 15 minutes. I continued my chat speak conversations and proceeded to clean up dots of blood throughout the house. Then I ventured outside for another look at my enemy. It just sat there uncaring and unfeeling. I knew not to get too close to it for fear of another attack, but eyed the spot that had impaled me. I wondered for a moment if my neighbors thought I was batty. My hand rested on the top of my head.
A few minutes later the phone rang. My husband was on his way home. It hadn't stopped bleeding.
After careful consideration we deduced that my finger did not, in fact, need stitches. He wrapped it for me in a paper towel and placed a rubber band just below the cut, not tight enough to cut off circulation, but tight enough to slow it. In a few minutes, it had stopped.
The table continued to inflict it's wrath on my for days! Bumping it against everything made up for the lack of pain on the actual impact and yard work became a guessing game of whether or not it would be opened up again. I opened it back up more often than not for three days and then was ordered not to do yard work until it was healed.
Moral of the story? Go with wood..or slate..or even concrete, not glass. Glass sure does hold a grudge!!
Two days later
Now do you believe I overreact?