Of much.
Ok, fine I'm scared of a lot of stuff.
There. I admitted it. Happy now?
For those of you who know me, you already know this particular fear, and I'm sure you laugh at me behind my back. It's ok. You can admit it. I've come to terms with my oddities. I can handle the secret laughter. Go ahead, laugh about it now since you already know what I'm going to talk about. Just do it. Laugh already.
I am afraid of glass. That's right, I said glass. Yes, I know I'm surrounded by it. It's in my car, it's in my house, I drink from it sometimes. Sometimes. At restaurants. Not at home. I like plastic Joe's cups when I'm at home. They're safe. They're free of evil. They don't break and slice your hand open. Don't get me wrong. I own glasses and glass items. Wine glasses to feed my "sauce" addiction (you're wondering what "sauce" is aren't you? I'll tell you about it later. It's glass time right now), Coke glasses to feed my Coke addiction, glass bowls, plates, and pitchers, which were my grandmother's, to feed my "need for stuff" addiction, and a bunch of other stuff made from glass. In fact, if you'll recall, just the other day I bought these particular glass items:
But, I will never drink out of those glasses, they are strictly for looking pretty as are the timer and the soap dispenser. Ok, fine, I use the soap dispenser, but I don't even touch the glass part so it's ok.
Why do I fear glass, you ask? Well, once upon a time back when I was a wee sophomore in high school, I was doing the dishes at home. We didn't have a dishwasher. It sucked. It changed my life forever. I hate washing dishes in the sink. Ok, I'm done now. Anyway, I was doing the dishes in my usual dishes washing order. Prepare yourselves. This order doesn't make any sense and is actually quite gross. First: I would fill up the sink with hot, soapy water. Second: I washed all the pots and pans. You know, the grody, crusty pots and pans. Third: I washed all the plates. You know, the grody, crusty plates. Fourth: I washed all the silverware and utensils. You know, the grody, crusty silverware and utensils. And finally, I would carefully place all of the glasses into the sick, disgusting, grody, crusty food infested dishwater and commence with washing those as well. It's ok if you're judging me, I'm judging me too.
One day, I was at the very end of the process, there was but one glass left in the sink, and it was broken, but I didn't know that. I reached into the water, felt around for the glass, and shoved my right hand directly down into it's broken shaft which of course, sliced my hand right open like someone filleting a fish. That evil, evil glass went in deep too, right behind the joint on my thumb where it meets the back of my hand. Ouch. Blood was gushing into that sink full of sick, disgusting, grody, crusty food infested dishwater. I felt faint. I must have screamed because my brother came running into the room and started yelling for our dad. He had been working nights and was asleep so he yelled back for us to stop fighting. My brother must have eventually gotten through to his sleep addled brain because all of a sudden my dad was behind me with a towel, wrapping it around my hand to staunch the flow of blood. Everything after that is a blur until we reached the ER. My mom was there too so she must have come home from work at some point. Then, we were in the exam room and the doctor was giving me shots to numb my hand, but they weren't working, I could still feel it. Finally, after the 3rd or 4th shot I lied and said I couldn't feel it anymore, but I felt every single one of those thirteen stitches. Every single one.
I had to wear a splint and a big bandage for a couple of weeks. I couldn't play my clarinet in band. My handwriting went from amazing to crap. I had to shower with my arm above my head so I wouldn't get my hand wet. Try it sometime, it's interesting. And then, my skin or my tissues or something started to reject the stitches. The doctor removed them and for the next couple of weeks I had to bandage my hand really well to keep the skin and tissue pulled together. What a pain. You don't realize how much you use your hands until you can't. I'm so glad and grateful I have two of them that work.
A few months later, there was still this big lump of scar tissue which was quite ugly so mom took me back to the doctor to see what it was about. After suggesting plastic surgery (for my hand?! I know I had dreams of becoming a famous hand model on the Home Shopping Network, but plastic surgery on my hand?! Get real!) he said I could try massaging the area with Icy Hot because it was possible there might still be some glass in there. What?! Broken glass living under my skin?! This was unacceptable! I massaged my hand with Icy Hot twice a day until those broken pieces of glass left the premises and the ugly scar tissue slowly disappeared. And now, I'm left with a not so ugly, not so pretty U shaped scar on my hand. It could have been worse, I suppose, and since it wasn't I'm ever grateful, but it did leave me with a lifetime fear of glass.
Excuse me...I think I hear some glass cracking. I have to go hide.
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