We had guests yesterday and as part of the pre-game prep I was the designated peeler. I peeled apples for an apple crisp and I peeled potatoes for potato-leek soup. Midway through the first half of the peelage, I took a short stroke to the fingertip, laying bare what felt like about six inches of raw nerve at the end of my left index finger. The right index finger was still good but I did NOT use it to dial 911. Closer inspection of the wound revealed about a quarter inch incision and a dangling flap of partially peeled skin behind that. Manfully, I bandaged the wound and kept on peeling without even wasting a time-out. Well, Beth bandaged the wound, but I did not whimper. Much.
After dinner, when the guests had gone, I removed the bandage and inspected my injury. The little flap of skin was still attached and every time I wiggled it I faced new waves of agony. Never mind that, I told myself. There are dishes to do, and do them I did.
All night long, whenever I moved my left hand that little flap of skin would catch on a blanket or something and fresh waves of crippling pain would wash over me. This morning the flap was quite dried out and with a little wiggling back and forth I was able to remove it.
This must be what pro-football players feel like the day after a crushing game. A little pain, a little anguish, but compensating for all that the prideful memory of a job well done.
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