How Stupid Do You Have to Be?

I think it’s safe for most people to say there are a handful of jobs they will never do.  For instance, I’m pretty sure I’d never want to be a doctor.  Not because of the schooling or the gore or the expense, but simply because there’s so much responsibility.  People aren’t nearly as fussy about the business services they buy as they are about, say, mistakenly having their uterus removed instead of their appendix. And I don’t really want to be bothered with that kind of precision.

Another profession I would never attempt is waiting tables.  The money’s no good.  People like to tell you the tips are good, but they’re not.  At least, not for me.  It’s not because I’m mean or rude or would flash small children.  It’s just any profession that involves me carrying inappropriate amounts of food on a tray eight times the size of my head that weighs more than a small poodle is invariably going to lead to a floor full of hot food and a lot of pointing and laughing.  I am just that clumsy.

I never played sports growing up, but was on the dance team in high school.  This involved a lot of kicking, but not a lot of coordination.  I was a fantastic roller skater, but had four wheels firmly on the ground making it pretty difficult to hurt myself.  Still, I walk into doors and doorframes at least weekly.  I bang my knee or my head on the corner of something at least monthly. 

Several months ago, I was stepping out of the garden-size bathtub when the pinky toe on my left foot managed to connect with great force to the inside of the tub, breaking itself.  I didn’t even know it was depressed, and here it was trying to commit suicide.  I didn’t bother going to the doctor, but I did gimp around in flip flops for a few conveniently summer weeks after that.

I have a gorgeous metal bed.  Perfectly square corners and all clean lines and modernity.  With its white coverlet and simple green pillows, it beautifully completes my deep, rich brown and terribly contemporary bedroom set.  I had pictured in my mind what I wanted, then I searched high, low, and high again until I found it.

About two months ago, the pinky toe on my right foot got far too intimate with one of the foot posts.  I rolled onto the ground in screaming pain for about fifteen seconds before I decided with great conviction how fortunate I was that, if I was going to break a bone, at least I was busy breaking unimportant, useless bones like those in my pinky toes. 

By the way, this happened right about the time I decided to make spaghetti and meatballs for company.  I was grating fresh parmesan and apparently being distracted by something shiny when the knuckle of my thumb was grated along with the cheese.  I mean, who doesn’t like a little extra protein in their cheese? I bandaged it up, with the help of a friend, and served the pasta anyway. It was a hit and, indeed, the best meatballs I’d ever made.

I’ve always loved to cook, so this process of making tomato sauce and meatballs was further enhanced by my set of Henckels knives.  When I upgraded from a cheap set of Macy’s knives I’d bought in college, I was astonished at the improvement to my cooking experience. 

At present, I store the knives in a block on my otherwise bare counters.  I had grabbed the amazing bread knife last week to cut up some seed-heavy bread I’d picked up at the area market.  Because I’m so hasty and clumsy, the block started falling over so I caught it with my left hand.  Which would have been just fine had I not still been holding the bread knife in my right.  In an instant of intense pain and blood, I realized I’d cut my pinky finger.  I ran it under the water to discover that the tip of it was hanging off.  I sliced parallel to my nail about halfway down that top third of my finger, halfway in.  The ER doc called it a “partial amputation”.  And in that painfully small area of the body, there are eleven stitches.

It takes a special kind of stupidity to do anything that requires 11 stitches in a body part with a total cubic area of 1/4”.