That’s how many currently healing wounds I have on my hands.
While I love my job, something about working in extremely dark conditions around glass and small protruding screws left over from rick shaw DIY work has left my hands to be monuments to the word “Ouch.” Yes, I get lime juice in them. All the time.
A little while back during a particularly crazy night I was rushing to fill a few hundred orders and reached into the bottom drawer of the fridge to grab a pair of Bud Lights (whose idiotic “drinkability” ad campaign seems to be working like gang busters, white people can’t get enough of that shit). As I pulled them out I must have nicked the bottom lip of the door track, causing one of the bottles to completely shatter in my hand.
It was like a glass grenade had just gone off. Sudsy, tasteless beer shot everywhere and I just sat there staring at my hand. All I could do was wait to see how bad the ensuing injury would be.
I remember thinking that I’d felt this way before. It’s the same feeling you get when you’ve been caught by your girlfriend doing something that you should not have been doing. Only you’re not sure exactly which thing. And you’re definitely not sure how she’s going to react. All you do is sit there and wait to see if she’s going to start crying hysterically, call your mother, cut you in your sleep (this one’s the worst) or if she’s going to give you another chance.
The cut was small. A gusher, but small. I was really lucky.
I guess to keep in line with the previous metaphor it was like if the girlfriend had asked me to bring home the stripper I’d T-boned for a threesome.