(Warning! Graphicly gruesome photos attached to this blog post. Viewer discretion advised.)
“Babe, don’t freak out…” Those are the exact words I recall to this day, as I calmly phoned Sergeant Shredded on the most unexpected Thursday afternoon.
And it just so happens, that this exact Thursday, is the day before Sergeant Shredded’s birthday. Typical…
The timeframe for today’s blog is during the pandemic, when ALL exercise and gym equipment are at an all-time premium. Weights and plates, bars and bells, racks and stacks, they’re all priced beyond meteoric. A metric ass ton of nonsense ensues, as demand outweighs supply to the nth degree. Everything is out of stock OR, just as bad…ass-tronomically overpriced.
SO what do I do?!
.
.
Of course, I buy a weight rack, plates, dumbbells, and Olympic bars in a reasonable quantity. I’ve already ordered and received most of the equipment. Only a few keys pieces remain. And TODAY, a day that will live on in assaultive infamy, the 45LB cast iron weight plates are arriving.
It’s about 2PM, the day before Sergeant’s birthday, and I get the notification from the doorbell.
Bringgg, bring, da-ding-ding-dong, da dong-ding-dingity
(yes, my doorbell does in fact have a malfunction)
I hover across the living room hardwood floors in excited anticipation, approaching the precipice of no return.
Question: What is the first rule of opening packages?…
(Ponder that for a moment, as we dive in to this absurd chain of events.)
I open the front door and
there,
IT,
ISssssss!
Staring up at me from on top of the floor mat,
is a large 24 x 24 cardboard box, filled with two 45 LB plates of weight lifting shred-ness. Due to the weight and packaging of the product, it has been wrapped w/ two of those might, fat, white shipping straps.
You know the ones im talking about! The one’s you can only cut with tremendous force using a sharp knife or sharp scissors, and once the tension is released…, a wave of air and force, air force, whizzes around the surrounding area.
I pick up the meaty box and bring it inside the house, carefully navigating the path before so I don’t trip and fall; or worse, drop these sons of beaches onto myself or the floor beneath me. And then, I strategically place this heavy sucker on top of the granite kitchen countertops.
Now it’s time to inspect the package for damages and check out this fine cast iron craftsmanship. But first, something sharp and pointy is required to fully open this fairly ordinary box. I quickly scan around he kitchen, examining the countertops for a pair of scissors.
.
.
Upon quick examination, I don’t locate any scissors in the kitchen area. It’s a good thing we have sharper, more dangerous items available and they are directly in my line of sight. Voila!
Enticing me from across the room with their razor-sharp edges and elegant handles is a kitchen knife set, expertly placed cattycorner to the gas cooktop.
Back to the original question, “What is the first rule of opening packages…w/ a sharp object, that is?”
CUT AWAY from yourself!! (I hope that was everyone’s answer, and if not, let this story serve as a reminder to always cut away from yourself. NEVER, ever towards yourself.)
I grab the stainless steel sidekick and approach the large box, tightly surrounded by mighty, fat, white shipping straps. I first start w/ the packaging tape. I carefully slide my sharp sidekick across the tape w/ precision and safety.
Next, I move to those mighty, fat, white bastards and place my knife angled and underneath the far right strap. I apply some pressure, and pull….
*SNAP, WHOOsshhh*
The first strap releases w/ gales forced wind behind it.
I re-examine the box and identify the last remaining strap.
“One down, one to go”, I slyly think to myself.
Feeling good? Feeling great?…
Yep, what a stupid arrogant prick! Who in the hell gets arrogant over opening a package and some shipping straps? Some people’s kids, I tell ya.
I stare down at the second strap, carefully place my stainless steel accomplice angled and underneath, and begin to cut and pull. Briefly, almost instantaneously, I quickly consider to myself,
“Be careful, don’t pull too hard, you probably shouldn’t be doing th-“
Everything goes black. My vision becomes a little fuzzy and my heart starts racing!
“What the …”
I look down,
gazing into the scenic tattooed backdrop of my inner left forearm that’s now pouring red; dripping w/ blood. The oxygen mixes w/ the blood creating a dark red accent for my half sleeve, cascading off my elbow and crashing onto the tiled floor below.
“I CAN’T believe I did THAT!
How could I be so stupid!?
Oh no.
Oh NO, NO NO, NO NO.”
Luckily, I remain calm under pressure and have my wits about me. I swiftly SLAM my right hand down, and plug the gaping hole in my left forearm w/ my thumb and aiding appendages.
“JORDINI !”, I yell aloud, calling for my oldest son whose 15 at the time.
1. 2..
“JORrrr-DINIiiiiii!” one more time, for those in the back.
The Great Jordini, hearing the concern and heightened pitch in my voice, races down the stairs.
He slides across the floor, peers into the kitchen, and-
Instantly becomes mortified!
In stunned silence and terrified amazement, he stares over at me. I stare back at him.
I’m standing there, plugging the hole in my arm, with a crime scene of blood dropped and splattered across the kitchen floor and baseboards.
“Jordini, can you grab me a towel from the cabinet!?, I instruct.
(Isn’t it weird, that when a traumatic event happens…for whatever reason, your legs just seem to malfunction? I got stabbed in the arm, but my legs are in perfect working order.)
Whilst trying to remain calm, the last thing I am thinking about is moving one iota from the precise location of the original crime.
The original crime being my dumb ass violated the most important rule and cut TOWARDS myself. A painfully hilarious memory streaks across my mind,
“Kids…
Any time you are using a knife, make sure that you Cut Away from yourself!”
(I then of course demonstrate the correct knife cutting procedures, for ultimate safety and instruction.)
Well, I’ve done it now. Instead of setting a good example for my kids on how to do things the proper way, I’ve become THAT person. THAT person nobody wants to be and everyone loves to make fun of; the…
“Do as I say, not as I Do” kinda person. That’s who.
That’s what I’ve become.
Reduced to 8 tiny words.
A terrible reminder and a poor example of how to do things the safe and proper way. But, if you tend to look at things as if the glass is half full, then you could say I’m the best example!
I provided the best example of,
“How NOT to open a box!”
Now, back to the story.
The Great Jordini sprints over to the kitchen cabinet and finds a teal hand-towel that I use to carefully and tightly wrap around my left arm.
Now what?
I take a deep breath and calmly direct,
“Jordini,
I know you ONLY got your learners permit last week AND
We’ve only driven one time, BUT…
I’m gonna need you to drive me to the hospital.
“Mom’s not here AND,
I don’t think I can drive myself.”
.
.
.
*SHIT!!!!* (The Great Jordini screams aloud…, in his head, to himself of course.)
You wouldn’t know it by the look on his face or even the actions that followed, but you know that The Great Jordini is feeling a little less than great right now. Is he scared? Nervous? Excited?
Yes!
He is all of the above and probably then some. Shoot, I would be.
But, he doesn’t show it. Not even a little bit. Not even a hint of hesitation or an ounce of doubt.
The Great Jordini calmly nods his head in acknowledgement, with the ever so professional confirmation,
“Yes Sir.”
He moves about 10 paces, swiftly grabs the keys to Titan, and begins to plot the next actions.
“Hurry up.
Grab your water, AND
For goodness sake…
Make sure to use the bathroom.”
That’s right, I’m a grown man and my 15 year old son is giving me instructions, which include using the bathroom.
I grab what I need, get my water bottle and follow quickly behind Jordini. (hint, hint: I didn’t have to pee-pee 😉😉😉)
We climb up into the black on black on black on black on black Titan and depart from the driveway, heading in a northeasterly southwesterly direction.
“Put you seatbelt on!
We aren’t savages.”, The Great Jordini exclaims from the drivers seat.
“Yes sir.”, as I expediently buckle and click my seatbelt into place.
ANddddd, we’re off.
The Great Jordini takes us down the road and out of our gated in neighborhood. Once we reach the main road taking us out of the community, I grab my phone and dial Sergeant Shredded.
“Babe, DON’T freak out…”, are the first words that escape from my mouthpiece after Sergeant Shredded’s hello.
“You did WHAT!
STOP it. (as she snickers at the stupidity)
and NO,
I’m not freaking out.
“Wait, what?…
Who’s driving?
Alright, stop at Publix and I’ll meet you there.”
That’s how the dialogue goes as, once again, Sergeant Shredded calmly swoops in and saves the day.
Rescuing Mr. Grake from…, himself.
Sergeant Shredded ended up escorting the stab wound victim and The Great Jordini to the hospital, ONE day before her birthday, where I received stiches and a daily reminder etched across my forearm. It reads,
“Cut AWAY, stupid!”
And with that, A Self-inflicted and Unexpected Stabbing occurred, On A Thursday.