Spaghetti Dance

A few weekends ago, someone gave me about 5 gallons of leftover spaghetti. This was partially my fault, as I had failed to communicate accurate numbers for the spaghetti dinner they were providing, and so it was right that I pay the penalty and dutifully eat spaghetti roughly every 3rd lunch or dinner for the foreseeable future.

The most exciting moment in all this happened last week, when I was standing in my tile kitchen in my splendid new off-campus apartment, and I dropped my bowl of spaghetti right next to my bare feet. The bowl shattered, and when I looked down, I tried to control my panic: the bowl had apparently inflicted dozens of cuts on my feet, all were bleeding, and it looked pretty bad. I worked hard not to hyperventilate. My mind spun through who I would call, whether I need to go to the hospital, whether stitches would help, whether I could drive myself, and again, how I could keep breathing in a regular manner.

Then I realized it didn't hurt that much. I carefully stepped into the bathroom, rinsed off my feet, and realized it was all spaghetti sauce.

I heaved a big sigh of relief, allowed a gentle head shake at my self-inflicted panic, and made a mental note to improve my blood identification skills.