I Guess You Could Call It Irony

Because the day that I changed my tagline to, "Do you believe in love, like I believe in pain," my commitment was challenged just a wee bit. A co-worker of mine turned fifty (freaking) years old on the fourth of July, but since she was on vacation, we've been celebrating her birthday this week. I decided that I would make her chocolate cupcakes, and I don't often use my oven at the apartment because I am a HUGE fan of the toaster oven. It's rare that I need the cubic space of the family-size oven. So, as I continued to check on the progress of my culinary talents and lift the treats from the oven, I also lifted my forearm to the top of the three-hundred-fifty-degree oven. Smart move on my part as I ended up with a second-degree burn.

The odd thing was, it didn't really hurt. It stung just a bit. I ended up talking to my mother within a few minutes of the injury, and of course she told me to apply ice. I argued that the damage was done and that there wasn't much that ice could offer. She responded that the ice would lessen the damage. I obliged her request for about eleven seconds, and then said, "Ok, it was applied. It feels no different." Though I noticed my skin was beginning to turn a grayish color.

The next morning my skin had blistered in the nice shape of a leech and turned a bit blacker. I gently pressed the blister and noticed it just felt airy. I decided not to touch it and take my shower. But in the drying-off process, I accidentally forgot about the injury and slid the towel right over it. I then noticed a portion of the black skin had folded back and another section of it lying on the floor of my tub. I "eeeweeed" at myself.

When I got to work and showed my co-worker her breakfast treat, I quickly pointed out what I had done to myself for her birthday. She sneered and said that I should have covered it up. "I thought you were supposed to air burns out or something," I responded. She assured me that in the environment we work in, I should most definitely cover it up as she offered me some Neosporin® cream and a bandage. I removed the bandage a few times during the day to check on the progress of my wound. Later that night, I removed it once more and noticed what I thought was an excess of Neosporin® cream, but as I investigated further, I realized I was looking at a mass of goo that my body created. I quickly shoved my forearm under cold, running water. I pulled it back and realized it was still lumpy, gooey, and a wee bit greenish in color. It kind of turned my stomach to look at it. Still kind of turns my stomach to say it, really. (How are you holding up?) I ended up having to wash the burn with soap, where I had to turn my head to keep from grossing myself out from myself. I let the burn breathe during the night, and it looked much, much better, expect for the small fold of black skin that I have yet to remove. I tried to lift it, and it looked gooey underneath, and when I see goo, I think "ewe," and my tummy threatens to turn against me.

I have had a bad habit of burning myself. In high school, many of my school mates taunted me with the name, "Pyro." I would tend to play with fire in chemistry class. I'd light matches for no reason but to watch them burn. Once, as a child, I turned off my bedroom lamp and then decided with NO THOUGHT OF CONSEQUENCE, to just palm the hot bulb. A few days later, my hand started peeling and it took me quite some time to backtrack as to why that was happening. I can also recall a time where my mother left me in the car while running some errand. I started to play with the cigarette lighter. When it popped back out, I looked the orange, glowing light with awe, and again, I decided to stick it to the inside of my hand. I clutched my mother's water bottle for the remainder of that day. When I was old enough to know better, but still too stubborn to ever follow directions, I tried to steam my skirt while wearing it. I ended up with a burn of four dots across my thigh. For some years, I had scars across my left wrist where it looked like I had attempted suicide because I would reach across the iron and burn myself.

The thing is, burnt skin grosses me out. It's the one thing I would question when taking marriage vows. In sickness and in health, but if you burn your body, I get to use my get-out-of-jail-free card because I cannot handle melted skin. Yet, it seems I am determined to melt my own.