I wasn't going to blog about my day yesterday, because, believe it or not, I am the kind of person who doesn't like to overshare. Yes, I talk a lot about my life on this blog, but I generally steer clear of explicit content, whether that means bodily functions (drippies notwithstanding, and FYI I actually got a request--possibly in jest--for more about that) or sexual escapades. Some bloggers feel free to write about their bodies and exploits in graphic detail, but you know, my parents read this. It is every child's nightmare to hear their parents having sex, and I imagine the horror goes both ways.
Aaaaanyway, this isn't even about sex, so I don't know why I digressed. It's about lighting myself on fire ... for the second time in a year. Only, sadly, this story revolves around something I consider to be oversharing: namely, number two.
Monday night, I was taken out by my boss and his wife for approximately 16 drinks as well as a delicious sushi dinner. I started off with lychee martinis, but then moved on to white wine, a terrible mistake, but one you can only recognize if you are sober. Once you give a girl 5 martinis, the only judgment she can make with any certainty is "Yay! More drinks!" Long story short, martinis, wine, sushi ... my tummy was not amused.
Fast forward to Tuesday at work. My stomach grumbles, my intestines dry heave. I am struck by a horrible realization: I will have to do number two at the office. Like I said, I am a private person. I don't like for anyone to know when I ... do that. If I do that, I mean -- obviously I am a girl and girls don't poo.
So. This was an unavoidable situation. It was either that or, probably, die (that's what it felt like). So I steeled myself, looked around for potential witnesses, grabbed some matches for damage control, and darted into the bathroom.
As I am a considerate person, and a fan of smelling nice, I set about the task of "clearing the air," so to speak, after it was all said and done. I took my pack of matches and attempted to light one. It didn't light. I struck it again -- nothing. I struck it four, five times, my anxiety growing. I had been in there for what seemed like hours! Everyone would know!!! Summoning all my strength, I struck the match one last time. And that's when a sizzling fireball flew into my face.
The head of the match had lit, but had broken off and bounced off of my neck and into my curls. I heard the unmistakable hiss of burning hair. Shrieking, I rushed to the sink and doused myself with water. Assessing the damage, I: smelled like burnt ass; was wet from the neck down; had a hole in my sweater; had a burn on my neck; and -- worst of all -- had failed to conceal my clandestine bathroom trip.
And that, friends, is what it means to add injury to insult. Also it seems to reflect poorly on my place in the world of Darwin.