Hot Coffee, Wrong Destination

There are injuries that come with a story, you were doing something interesting, or at least something worth explaining. And then there is what happened to me this morning, which is that I poured hot coffee directly onto my hand.

Not partially into the mug and partially onto my hand. Fully onto my hand. The mug is fine. The mug received zero coffee. I had clearly aimed at the mug, I had every intention of the coffee going into the mug, and yet. I stood there at the sink for a solid ten seconds before my brain caught up with what had happened and suggested cold water. Ran it under the tap, which helped. The mark on my palm looks like nothing, it's barely pink, which somehow makes the whole thing more embarrassing than if it were dramatic. You can't even point to it and say, look what I survived. You just have to admit that you poured coffee on yourself at seven in the morning while standing still in your own kitchen.

presenting exhibit A

The evidence on the counter was actually worse than the hand. There's something about seeing the splash pattern, the way it spread, the radius of it, that told the full story of how thoroughly I had miscalculated. I took a picture before I wiped it up, because apparently that is a reflex I have now. I'm not sure when I became a person who photographs her own disasters before addressing them, but here we are.

I did eventually make a second cup. It went into the mug. I stood very still and paid close attention and it worked exactly as coffee-pouring is supposed to work, which, good. Progress. Gerald watched the whole thing from the windowsill and had no notes.