My fingers

In the last week, I haven't been kind to my fingers:

• I have jammed my engagement ring finger in our heavy wooden door, I didn't know what to do it ached for hours, I fashioned a protective sleeve out of tissues, plasters and one of those soft rubber thimble thingies, all I have to show for it is a faint red mark under my nail.

• I swung, with all my might, our lighter kitchen door onto my pinky finger, accidentally. This time I stuck it into a bag of frozen peas until it went kind of hard and numb and a funny colour, it was still warm against my face. 

• I got a deep paper cut from grabbing a stack of 19th century coroners inquests. I felt a little nervous about the 19th Century dust. I covered my hands in sanitizer.

• Today I somehow grazed two knuckles, enough for them to bleed and sting, when I was lifting boxes of archives. I didn't bother with sanitizer this time, just plasters. 

Now we are out of plasters.

My fingers are stiff from the plasters covering them, I can imagine the icky white shriveled skin that lies beneath.

My Mum and sister, not to mention Louise L Hay (I think of her as Louisel Hay), would say there must be a reason for so many little injuries on my hands.

I looked it up, fingers represent the details of life.

I don't believe it.

I think I'm just too careless.