I knew it was only a matter of time until I pulled some dumb maneuver and cut myself. And, of course, that incident happened tonight. With a sharp knife. Yeah, ouch.
I did a pretty good slice on the top of my thumb. How the hell did I manage to do that? I have no idea.
The second it happened I dropped the knife and started panicking because a. it hurt like hell and b. I had no idea how deep the cut was.
Thankfully, my husband is quicker to react than I am and dashed off to somewhere else in the house to gather supplies. I stood at the sink just staring at my thumb like a dork until I finally came to my senses and wandered off to find him.
He had taken out the first aid kit and band-aids were strewn all over the counter top. He found a butterfly bandage that would work on my thumb and put neosporin on it. And then he bandaged my thumb for me and kissed my thumb after he was done.
After that I was off dish duty (and no, I didn't slice my thumb open to get out of doing the dishes, although it's a sort of decent idea), and so I watched my husband pretend to slice his thumb on a butter knife and then smirk at me while he finished washing the dishes.
For the record, I did not slice my thumb on a butter knife. It was a steak knife. And now I'm scared of knives. At least for tonight.