We all know, from my past experience and retellings on this blog, that I am klutzy. I am a magnet for minor accidents. The universe itself must run on the energy produced from my self-inflicted injuries.
It is a miracle I survived Thanksgiving. I mean, you people let me near gas stoves and actual knives.
Well, my hearts, I’ve done it again. And this, this just plain baffles me.
I brought an orange to work for lunch. It’s round, fairly innocuous—the primary danger being juice in my eye, and possibly, in a cut on my finger. The ordinary way of peeling an orange (puncturing it with a fingernail and clawing it open) is both tedious and time-consuming. And sticky.
It does all the dirty work. The puncturing. The prying. It’s the best thing since sliced bread. Looks entirely innocent, does it not? Sitting there, all unassuming and benign.
Do not be fooled, minions of my heart. That device is, in fact, malicious. Allow me to explain.
In my left hand was the orange. Sweet, delicious, and healthy. In my right hand, the peeler—what I thought was an ally. I hovered over the trashcan, where my effortless peels of orange rind would drop. I put the peeler to the skin of the orange, pressed, and dragged down.
Oh, so easy! Look at that nice little line. It went all the way through to the flesh (Ha! ‘Through to the flesh’. I should have known.). I prepared to repeat the gesture, pleased with myself, to remove a perfect wedge of rind.
Press. Drag. SLICE.
That wily orange peeler skipped right out of the fruit and nicked my hand. Of course, as I was handling an orange, the juice dribbled into the cut, and it felt like I was going to have to amputate whole fingers.
I went to the bathroom to wash my hands, which only made it worse. Pulsating fire radiated out of my hand and up my arm for a microsecond. That thing stung. Like, giant mechanical bee on an avenging rampage STUNG.
I’m pretty sure that peeler has some sort of nefarious scheme. It’s out to get me. The attack was completely unprovoked.
Because of the avenging-mechanical-bee-sting in my hand, I was complaining rather loudly to my coworkers about the evils of orange peelers. My boss looks at me, incredulous.
“Isn’t that made of plastic?”
Yes, boss lady. Yes, it is.