Is There A Doctor In The House

I’ve never been an accident waiting to happen, but this is getting ridiculous.

Two weeks ago, I was cutting up apples to make applesauce for the first time. This involved great trepidation, as I knew how delicious my grandma’s applesauce tasted, whereas mine had great potential to be terrible. Or worse, to be blah.

Perhaps this fear is what caused me to position the apple portion and the knife in such a way as to slice into my left forefinger; something had told me it would be foolish to hold the apple that way, but I ignored it. Now I have a new scar right below an old one (which was acquired at age seven when my brother found the inner barrel of a washing machine in the neighbor’s trash and thought it would be fun to scrunch up in it as someone rolled it along - a homemade roller coaster. My finger was cut deeply by the rough edge as I held on for dear life).

This past week, the menu one day called for pork chops with apples. I set about cutting the required medium apple into thin slices and proceeded to create a new scar – this time on the middle finger of my left hand.

Yesterday, excited at the prospect that I only had to finish three pages to complete my honeymoon scrapbook, I was arranging photos and deciding which ones to crop. Somehow, in placing the photo on the paper trimmer, I got grazed by the razor blade, on the ring finger of my left hand.

After attaching yet another bandaid to my left hand, I considered the potential meaning of this curious course of events, as is my habit. God wants to keep adhesive bandage manufacturers in business? God wants me, a right-handed person, to realize the left hand is just as important as the right? Should I stop buying apples, my favorite fruit? Stay away from knives and cooking?

I was hurrying along when each incident occurred. I guess I need to slow down and appreciate the small things in life. And wear protective gear when dealing with sharp objects.