Of Sharp Edges & Dull Wits

I have one of those¬† Swiss Army knives, the kind that has I don’t know how many blades and tools and such. Among it all there’s a pair of scissors, tweezers… even a little magnifying glass for starting fires should you require such functionality.¬† As a result of attempting to use it (not to start a fire) my left index finger’s tip is wrapped in a big bandage (that’s making it hard to type).

Sometimes the knife travels with me in a pocket or pack and sometimes it gets left somewhere… home, office, car. Of late it’s been in my office where I put it to occasional and successful use slicing up apples. Today I was not so successful slicing up a persimmon, one from a giant bag that a coworker had brought in and left in the lunchroom for any who wanted one. Or 12.

I suppose my injury could be so worse, but I couldn’t have failed in the simple act of cutting a piece of fruit more self-loathingly.

After opening up the longest of the knife’s blades without incident I placed the tip at the spot on the persimmon where I wanted to begin the cut. As it was a moderately ripe persimmon I didn’t have to apply much pressure to facilitate the downward slicing action.

Suddenly encountering unexpected resistance I “leaned into it” just enough to drive the blade all the way through and quickly to the table, where it came to an abrupt rest and right after so did my left index finger on what should have been the harmless back of the blade.

Should have been.

But no, see, what I had unwittingly and carelessly opted to do was for some head-shakingly unfathomable and painfully laughable lack of reason was invert the entire knife so the business side was up and the useless side was the one being employed to slash… thus the surprise increased resistance I met.

And speaking of surprise, what became immediately and unmistakably apparent to me in the form of a wicked cold-burning stinging sensation emanating from my left index finger was that its tip did not come to a stop against the back of the blade. Oh no. Instead it hit the sharp edge of the blade for that initial cut and then kept on going… or should I say the stainless steel blade kept going into my finger until I’d butterflied it but good.

Being that I was at work I was forced to cancel the parade of invective that immediately lined up to march out of my mouth. Besides, I had more important things to do than spew foul language in full reproach. Like bleed. A lot. I swear the only thing that bleeds as much as a head when wounded is a finger. I wish I didn’t know this first hand — ha: hand, get it?

Anyway, my injured digit and I adjourned to the sink in the lunch room where I ran cold water over and in and through the wound, hissing when it hurt, which it did. After some isopropyl alcohol spray, first aid ointment and a large fingertip bandage, all that was left was a cartoonish throbbing that served as punctuating proof of my stoopidity, and the uneaten persimmon — which I finished slicing without further injury but then threw out after one achingly astrigent bite.