Since I'm out of work-appropriate clothes to wear, I did some laundry last night and transferred it to the dryer right before bed.
Today I decided to transfer the laundry from the dryer to the clothes basket for folding.
For whatever reason, Shawn parked my car very close to the house while pulling into the garage last night, and of course there's always the gathering spot for all sorts of extra crap (cat litter, charcoal, car oil, windshield fluid, etc.), which happens to be at the front of the garage right between the two cars, and then there's Shawn's car, which is always parked close to the front of the garage on account of it being a truck with a full sized bed (I know, it's a bit odd thinking of the Rabbit Pickup as having a full sized truck bed, but it does). And I have to go through all this to get to the washer and dryer.
As I start working my way around the front of the truck, I hit my knee on the license plate and think to myself, "oh shit, that hurt, I hope I didn't cut myself" and then get to the washer and dryer before I look at my knee (not that I could have really looked at it before).
And this is the part where I start to hyperventilate. Because my knee is sliced open. Pretty deeply, too. Probably only an 1/8 of an inch or so, but I'm a girl, who, while being fairly tomboyish, never had any major wounds. In fact, I think the biggest 'wound' I ever had was a toenail that, after dropping a cabinet door on it, turned black and fell off.
So back to my gaping wound. It's not bleeding much, but I can definitely tell that it is deep, so I slap a hand over the wound (even though it's been about a minute from when I sliced it, and it's not bleeding), and start hobbling back into the house, having to go back around the license plate of death, the cat litter, the charcoal, the motor oil and washer fluid, and finally skirting around my car before getting to the door, which I open, and then gimp my way to the bathroom. I then have to finagle my way to sit with my knee under the tap so I can start rinsing.
It's at this point that I yell to Shawn, who is sitting in the study, as to whether or not I need to go to the hospital to get a tetanus shot if I had my last one 3 years ago, but I sliced my knee open on his license plate.
He meanders down to the bathroom, takes a look at my knee in the mirror and says "wow, that's deep. If you go to the doctor they'd definitely stitch that one up. Not that I would go to the doctor if it was me. I mean, I've had worse and I didn't go to the doctor. They're all stitch happy there."
By this point, I start looking at the cut and start feeling a wee bit woozy. So I ask Shawn to go get some gauze as I sit on the toilet, trying to keep the affected knee straight (to keep the wound closed), while also keeping my head as close to the ground as possible.
What seems like 5 minutes later I yell to Shawn about the gauze that he was supposed to have been pulling from the first aid kit, which is in the closet in the study, on the ground, next to my wedding dress, which doesn't take any time to find, why am I the only one that knows where anything is in this house? GAH! So he comes back into the bathroom with a little gauze bandage from our first aid kit, and starts laughing at me being almost passed out. He cleans up the cut some more with the peroxide and puts a bandage on it (to keep it closed), while we debate on whether to go to the doctor or not since I don't care about scars, and the wound was a very clean cut, but it does have the bad luck of being on a knee which means it will try to reopen every time I bend it.
I pretty much come to the conclusion that since it isn't bleeding, is a straight cut, and as long as I'm not bending my knee a lot, it probably would be fine with some butterfly bandages. So I ask Shawn to go get some butterfly bandages from the store, since I'm pretty worthless, what with the almost blacking out and feeling like I'm going to puke and everything.
Right before he left, he was going on about how cute I was--because I had never had a big boo-boo before, and I guess with the generally looking like hell. Yeah, because that's something I can control. Okay, I probably could have controlled the lolling my head about and going "guhhhh, I think I'm going to puke" a little better.
And here I never thought that I was the passing out type, or the type to get woozy seeing blood, but apparently I am.
the funny thing? It was painful, and still is (I mean I only sliced it open maybe at 2:10pm), but that part doesn't bother me--the part that bothered me was feeling so nauseous. I can even handle the almost blacking out part, just please don't make me feel like i'm going to yark. And this, ladies and gents, is why I would never be able to go through natural childbirth--because it would make me feel like I needed to yark.
I think it's probably more telling that after cleaning and bandaging, my first thought is "man, I really ought to blog about this."