Slow Down, You Move Too Fast

Simon & Garfunkel’s “Feelin Groovy” has been a mantra for me.

The lyrics start out…

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feeling groovy

I’ve often hummed or sang the tune on the golf course, as I try to establish rhythm in my swing.

I should sing it while having sharp objects in my hand.

Here’s the latest outcome of just not paying enough attention, moving too fast, and then, well, shit.

Allow me to explain.

I was just minding my own business, reading our local paper online Sunday morning. Then, our Areca Palms we inherited when we purchased our RV lot in Florida last year, called out to me. Yep, they were all chanting that they needed trimming. And, boy, they said, don’t you want to take your new garden shears for a spin?

So, I heeded the call to lot maintenance.

I should have stuck to reading the paper.

There’s one of the palms tucked away, which required a bit of a stretch to reach the branch I needed to trim. Just a simple reach, with my left hand on the palm, of course, no glove on said extremity, and did a quick snip with my right hand.

Of both the frond and the base of my left hand.

Lessons learned from this latest escapade;

1. Do not trim, slice, or dice anything while Brad is away from the site. Did I mention he had our only car?
2. Do not trim, slice, or dice anything when you need to really stretch to do so. It’s just not worth it.
3. Do not trim, slice, or dice anything. Period.

So, Brad to the rescue, racing home, taking me to the local urgent care, where we were advised it would be 2 hours before I would be seen. This was at 11:30 a.m. I registered fully, and we turned back around for home. At 1:15 I received a text message that it would likely be closer to 1:50 before I’d be seen. I drove to the clinic again at 1:45. Technology! How cool! I wouldn’t have to wait in the  room filled with actual sick people or smokers.

Ha! The computer had gone rogue and was apparently spewing out “We are ready for you” messages when they really weren’t. A mere hour later I was finally ushered into a room.

The doctor, Rachael, smiled as I shared my latest incident with a sharp object.

Yes, there have been others, I told her.

Like the time the night before running a half-marathon with my younger brother, Gordie. We vowed to run the Disney Half in honor of our late sister, Karen, who was a track star in high school. Gordie’s family, my family, and our brother Jeff’s, all gathered at a local Italian place the night before to “Carbo load” for dinner. A freshly baked, unsliced loaf of bread was placed at our table. I thought I’d be nice and cut pieces for the family.

“I think you can sense where this is going,” I told her.

I dang near sliced off the end of my right index finger off.

Not ideal when you are running 13.1 miles the next morning.

“With blood spewing out of my finger, the emergency room doctor in Orlando asked how it happened. When I told him what I just shared with you, he laughed.”

That doctor said, “So you’re telling me the half-marathon is tomorrow, and you’re in the emergency room tonight? Usually we see patients afterwards.”

I didn’t appreciate his humor. Or the six stitches to piece my finger back together again.

Doctor Rachael just cracked up.

“Did you finish?” she asked, referring to the race.

“My finger hurt like heck the next day, but we successfully ran the half-marathon, and I earned my Donald Duck medal,” I said proudly.

I went on tell Doctor Rachael that since then, I’ve had fingers glued and stitched due to cutting veggies for stir fry. (I’m not really sure where the end of that finger ended up. Just kidding.) I’ve also slashed myself by leaving knives in a sink filled with soapy water. I would not recommend.

So, there I was, waiting to get the verdict from Dr. Rachael on the latest slice and dice adventure. Amazingly, the L-shaped deep cut didn’t require stitches, just some steri-strips, surgical glue, and the lovely purple wrap. Doctor Rachael gave me a tetanus shot for good measure, sent me off with a antibiotic regimen, and a little bit of advice.

“You ought to write a book about these mishaps,” she said. “You’re funny.”

I told her I actually had written five books, but certainly not on this topic. It’s my hope that I don’t continue on at this pace, thus having enough material to fill the pages of one.

This blog will suffice.

So now I’m just kicking the cobblestones, setting aside all kinds of activities to allow the gash to heal.

And my Areca Palms remain untrimmed.