So on Sunday Kyle and I decided to make cookies for our game night. Our cookie sheets are stored under a stack of pie pans and other pyrex dishes, and as I picked them up, I literally didn’t see a bowl sitting on top. Because I didn’t see it, I didn’t have a grip on it and it fell from waist height to shatter all over the floor.
I was utterly shocked, I didn’t see it on the stack, I didn’t see it fall, I just heard the violent shattering of glass. I was standing barefoot in a knee-length skirt on the far edge of the kitchen. The glass shattered so much that we found shards of glass across the kitchen (and we have a pretty big kitchen), under shelves, and in the sink. There were so many glass shards so spread apart that even after sweeping the entire kitchen, I still found shards the next day hiding under shelves and on the counters.
Like I said, I was standing in the middle of this glass explosion. Do you want to know how many cuts I got?
Less than a quarter inch across and not much deeper than a paper cut. On my hand. My legs and feet were untouched except for the tiniest of nicks on one of my heels that barely bled a drop.
It was one of those odd experiences, I feel like I should be covered in glass cuts, but almost every piece avoided me. They didn’t avoid my shelves, cabinets, sink, or door frames, but they avoided me. And I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty grateful for that. I am a pretty big pansy when it comes to pain, after all.