The worst part about accidentally cutting yourself with a knife is when you see that you are slicing into your own flesh and you watch in horror as your body completes the motion because you’ve gone too far and your dumb brain can’t tell your body to stop fast enough.
In other news I sliced about an 1/8 inch deep into my finger last night trying to open an ice cream container. I repeat, trying to open an ice cream container.
I am staunchly anti-mug-cake and very pro-eating-a-whole-fucking-cake instead.
This morning, Callie came up to me, as I was getting ready to leave for work, and started whimpering.
I crouched down to pet her.
"What’s wrong girl?"
She tiptoed up to me, barely whispering her little whimper whine, and touched her nose to mine.
Then she sneezed in my face.
I went to the gym over lunch and I’m just now realizing I left my lunch at home and the cafeteria is now closed.
…dropped your razor while in the shower and then mistakenly tried to grab it to only have it bobble around in the air and threaten to slice up your hands and/or body?
My eternal struggle is and always will be reaching that elusive goal where a good hair day, good face day, and a good outfit day all land on the same day.
The setup: I was flying back from Cleveland this past week. There wasn’t a direct flight so I was making a connection at Midway. I had a two hour layover and I was looking forward to pigging out on a sandwich from PotBelly. Before boarding in the Cleve we were alerted that there was a mechanical code detected, it delayed us 30 mins, NBD.
Mechanical issues taken care of, I board the plane, find my seat and get all settled in. I’m about 2 pages into the safety manual (a ritual for me on any flight) and we get notice of a 1 hr ground delay at Midway (weather). About half the flight deplanes and rebooks travel because they’ll miss their connection. The rest of us chance it, 30 minutes is tight but doable.
In the air we end up having to take a longer route. We land and I now have exactly 2 minutes until my flight takes off to get from my gate B13 to A17 (both near the ends of their respective concourse and at least .5 miles away from each other).
The action: Thankfully the crew knows that most of us are making connections and kindly ask anyone not making a connection in the next 15 minutes to remain seated and let the rest of us frantic assholes off first.
I’ve got my roller bag and my tote. My coworker is right in front of me and we are ready to run. As soon as we step out of the plane (now exactly departure time for our flight, also last flight out for STL that night) we bolt.
I’m wearing flats which at a sprint are not staying on my feet and my coworker and another guy sprint ahead of me. I continue my dash until my shoe flies off in the airport.
"Lady, your shoe came off!"
Everyone around me yells and points like I don’t realize my goddamn shoe isn’t on my foot anymore. I’m just going too fast and it takes me at least 20ft to stop and turn around to grab it. I’m passed by two other passengers from my Cleveland flight trying to make the same connection. I hesitate and think, screw it, and kick the other one off and continue my sprint barefoot with my roller bag, tote, and shoes in hand.
I don’t dare use the moving walkways in fear I’ll pinch my feet and get sucked up in a conveyer belt of hell. I do silently pat myself on the back though as I, now barefoot, run past two of the men who passed me and are actually using the walkways to expedite their run.
I’m flying and barely notice that there is a crowd in front of me, blocking any path forward. Half of the crowd is made up of naval officers and sailors all decked out in the official whites. My mind is only on my mad dash to my flight and I shoot through the first hole I see in the crowd. As I’m running I notice there are finely uniformed men and women on either side of me and I briefly pray to myself that it’s just a coincidence that they’re uniformly spread out, and all facing into an imaginary tunnel that I’m sprinting down barefoot, luggage flailing and hair as wild as a polecat.
I’m running right down the middle of some official welcoming party, complete with ceremonial honor walk…which I am unceremoniously ruining. I make a mad turn and bolt out between two very confused looking sailors.
I can hear a last call for my flight over the P.A., it hasn’t left yet and I double my efforts to finish my half mile sprint. The gate is all the way at the end of the concourse. I see my coworker (who is only burdened by a backpack) just make it to the gate, I’m about 30 ft behind. I toss my shoes on the ground, run into them, yank out my phone/boarding pass and scurry down the walkway and onto the plane. As we enter the already boarded and seated passengers applaud our obviously Herculean efforts as we walk to our seats (the remainder of the passengers from my flight are right on my heels). We’re all sweaty and wheezing from the run. We sit in the back, manage a head nod to each other and a smile - we made it, we may die in these seats from our own coughing, burning hearts and dead legs but we made it.
My coworker, plopped down next to me, asks:
"You see that navy homecoming ceremony?"
In an almost knowing tone, "Did you run through it?"
I nod again adding, "Barefoot."
"Oh my God, Kate."