October 12, 2012

The Time I Fought a White Board

Before we get to the good part of the story on how I actually got beat up by a white 
board, let me back track a little. 
Part of my job at the university includes managing a little staff of four students. They help out with throwing the weekly events and keep the house looking snazzy. I had previously made schedules for them but it was suggested that we get a calendar white board so that their work days and potential shift swaps could be documented more easily and seen by all of us. 

That was a great idea. 

I, being the great "boss" that I am, made a trip to the 'ol Wal Mart to purchase said white board.


I brought the white board, who will we now refer to as El Diablo, back to the house, put all of the information on it, and couldn't decide where to hang it. I switched it's location three times before settling on the office. This was actually a really stupid place to put it since not everyone that I work with has a key to the office. So I guess this whole encounter was karma for me being a gooftroop.

Thursday night rolls around and the student leaders come over to help start getting ready. I casually bring up El Diablo and inform them of the location. The genius student who first suggested El Diablo makes another wise suggestion of moving the board into the kitchen area where it's more easily accesible. 
His billion dollar private school education is obviously paying off. 
I then go into the office to pull El Diablo off of the door and transport it to its new home in the kitchen. It was fixed to the door by some sort of voodoo magic (sticky pads) and I put my fingers behind it to pull it off. 

No such luck. 

It pinched really hard but I am not a pansy (yes I am and this won't even be up for debate as you continue reading) so I just keep pulling.

Ouch. 

I start walking into the kitchen to admit my defeat and inability to remove a stupid office supply off of a wall since the stickers are too strong for me. I notice something in my hands. Blood. BUHLUD.


It really starts to hurt, like heartbeat throbbing in your finger tip hurt. Like, "ouch that is a pretty deep gash" hurt. This is where it all starts to go downhill. I am laughing because I can handle pain in no other way and I genuinely think I was shocked by what had just happened. My friend Kaitlin puts pressure on the bleeding while Mikayla went to get bandages and hydrogen peroxide. 



Then it happens, I start to feel like I'm going to faint. I have fainted twice in my life, so I know how my bod (forgot the 'y', but I'm leaving it because it feels B.A.) starts to feel when it is happening. I got dizzy, felt like I was going to throw up, couldn't keep my eyes open, and got the cold sweats. I laid down on the floor of my kitchen while Kaitlin fanned me with the "Hook" DVD case. After a couple minutes I start to feel better, we assess the damage, decide no further steps need to be taken, and bandage the fingers up. 
(Only one was cut, but the other one has a slice down the middle of the nail 
and it's just hanging on to the tender finger meat for dear life.)

Now I am typing this with fingers that look like they are wearing little potato sacks. How will I even function without the use of my right middle and pointer fingers? THOSE ARE MY FAVORITE ONES! But seriously, if my body can't handle a little slice & dice, how will I ever birth a child?

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1 comment :

  1. Your hand just caused me to startle audibly. So you know.

    ReplyDelete

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