This morning I sliced the back of my leg open with my razor while attempting to shave the back of my thigh. The cut bled profusely, staining the water into pink rivulets that circled the drain, along with my last shred of my dignity.
Luckily, Hugh is out of town so he was spared having to see me attempt to stanch the blood with toilet paper bits, which, resulted in nothing more than a trail of blood soaked toilet paper bits meandering down my leg in a gory conga line.
Once the bleeding finally stopped, I was left with the stinging pain of the wound, which, increases with the friction caused by my jeans and by the pressure created by sitting on anything more firm than a couch cushion. Several times today I have winced, only to be asked what was wrong by some well-meaning person, who; really did not sign up to hear about the gaping wound lurking slightly underneath my right butt cheek, but, who got to hear about it, anyway.
I joke about giving up shaving as I get older, but, if this incident is any indication of things to come, the joking could turn serious, fast.
You've been warned, Hugh.