This is what I did to myself today.
This morning, while cutting up an apple to put in my oatmeal (welcome to my exciting daily breakfast routine; oatmeal with an apple, some raisins, almond pieces, and cinnamon. Every day. And it's never any less delicious), the knife, which is somewhat dull, sort of skipped off the apple piece and... well.
I stabbed myself in the hand. Well, I didn't stab so much as I attempted to turn my own skin into a part of my breakfast, which my skin disagreed with, but apparently the knife was totally up for that.
Specifically, I managed to slice off part of the top of my middle finger, just above where my fingernail would be if I didn't bite my nails as part of my amazing and varied plethora of nervous habits.
Whenever I hurt myself, no matter how minor or major the wound is, I respond exactly the same way, with a huge, loud inhaled surprised gasp of air, a moment's pause, and then "OW OW OW OW OW" or "GUUUUUHHHHH" when the pain kicks in. I gasp when I stub my toe or hit my nose on something (like, memorably, Jason's forehead. More than once, even), I gasp when I trip and twist my ankle, I gasp when when I cut my hand and I'm bleeding all over the place. So every time it happens, Jason immediately goes into SERIOUS HUSBAND RESCUE TIME mode. Which is going to be super handy when something serious actually happens.
To be honest I wasn't sure what part of my finger I had even injured until I was on bandage #3, other than 'the part covered in blood'. When Jason asked if I needed stitches, I said no reflexively.
It bled so much that it went through the first bandage in roughly twenty minutes, before I even left the house. While I am not an overly squeamish person (it's hard to be squeamish when your favorite book genre is serious horror and you spend years cultivating a frankly worrisome knowledge of Romero zombie movies), I have a hard time looking at my own skin just sort of hanging around in the breeze. So I... didn't.
In retrospect, though, before I tell Jason I don't need stitches I should probably actually verify. Or, y'know, at least look directly at the wound.
Nope. That's not how we do things 'round these parts.
I bled through bandage number 2 within an hour of being at work. This was definitely progress in the 'how long it takes to go through my bandage' department, but I still had to dig around for another one. This time, I decided to be a grown-up and see how bad it was.
I inspected the problem, decided I probably didn't need the top of my finger anyway, and wrapped it up in bandage number 3.
Which didn't stick, because it was a small bandage and the part that is injured is the very top... ie, the Bane of all Band-Aids. So I wrapped Bandage 4 on top, and that didn't stick either, because it was in a terribly awkward position.
On top of that, I couldn't find any duct tape and I was beginning to worry about leaving a trail behind myself if I went looking. And not a trail of breadcrumbs, either.
So I taped the stupid thing down with Scotch tape.
Now I feel like my own hand is flipping me off all the time, but hey, at least I'm pretty sure it stopped bleeding. Granted, there are so many layers of bandage and tape at this point that I'm also pretty sure that if I am still bleeding, I won't notice unless the whole hand goes.
But what's important here is that I solved my Band-Aid conundrum.
Never let it be said that I am not a resourceful woman.