This week has been really painful. I mean literally painful.
It all started when I was washing the dishes the other night. I was being very industrious and getting a lot of crap washed, instead of just throwing all the dishes away like I wanted to. So, yes, I was proud.
That may have been what did it. I was too prideful in all my homemaking glory. My head was simply to full of warm fuzzy self-love that I never even saw the knife coming. Seriously, I never saw it until it had already stabbed me.
That’s right folks. A dirty, nasty, MEAN knife jumped out of my sink and into my foot.
I’ve never been so glad to own 18-year-old cutlery.
Even though I had just been viciously assaulted, I carried on. I kept on keeping on. I did my dishes anyway. I showed that knife what was up.
The very next day I sat down to pay some bills. This is a dreaded chore and it took great fortitude and courage to even attempt it.
Once again, my pride blinded me to the dangers I could be facing. I didn’t expect to be attacked ON THE FACE by an envelope, but it happened. Do I blame all envelopes? No. Every envelope is different. This one was an asshole, but that doesn’t mean I have to forsake all envelopes for all time.
So in two days time I suffered a poked foot and a paper cut lip, all in the name of housekeeping. I feel like these events were portentous, and far be it for me to ignore the symbolism. I will no longer be participating in such ill-advised activities. I will take into consideration all the hazards inherent in clothes washing, bathroom cleaning, vacuuming, and, heaven forbid, floor mopping. These things are clearly too fraught with danger for me to attempt.
I am no daredevil to be putting my safety in jeopardy like that.