The Grim Brie-per
This weekend I stabbed myself in the finger with a knife while trying to cut the cheese. That's actual cutting of actual cheese, by the way, not farting. I can't even begin to imagine what kind of gas you would need to have in order to be able to stab yourself in the finger.
I had invited the girls over to continue planning the shower for anniewaits' upcoming wedding, and was starting work on a lovely cheesy puff pastry for when the girls arrived. And then there was with the bleeding.
I am quite squeamish and really did very well for myself, running to the bathroom whilst torrents of red burst forth from my fingertip, reciting the same expletive over and over. It didn't hurt terribly, but there was lots of blood...
And here is the part where we learn how I have grown. Ready? A few years ago at the height of my hypochondria, a moment like this would have sent me into a near anxiety attack. I would have thought of tetnus shots and stitches and emergency rooms and infection and, inevitably death. Because the thing about hypochondria is, no matter how insignificant the injury, you always fear it will end in death.
This time, though, it was different. I was not even remotely concerned for my safety. I was concerned that if I had to get stitches in my hand, I would not have enough time to make a cheese pastry. And therein lies the change. I have apparently traded in fear of death for fear of not getting to eat cheese.
While it's maybe not a healthy change, I have to be grateful that it will probably at least save me money. Cheese is much less expensive than a trip to the emergency room.
I had invited the girls over to continue planning the shower for anniewaits' upcoming wedding, and was starting work on a lovely cheesy puff pastry for when the girls arrived. And then there was with the bleeding.
I am quite squeamish and really did very well for myself, running to the bathroom whilst torrents of red burst forth from my fingertip, reciting the same expletive over and over. It didn't hurt terribly, but there was lots of blood...
And here is the part where we learn how I have grown. Ready? A few years ago at the height of my hypochondria, a moment like this would have sent me into a near anxiety attack. I would have thought of tetnus shots and stitches and emergency rooms and infection and, inevitably death. Because the thing about hypochondria is, no matter how insignificant the injury, you always fear it will end in death.
This time, though, it was different. I was not even remotely concerned for my safety. I was concerned that if I had to get stitches in my hand, I would not have enough time to make a cheese pastry. And therein lies the change. I have apparently traded in fear of death for fear of not getting to eat cheese.
While it's maybe not a healthy change, I have to be grateful that it will probably at least save me money. Cheese is much less expensive than a trip to the emergency room.