Hurt at Work

It doesn’t look like much, but I got hurt at work today, and I have boo-boos. BOO-BOOS! On my face!

We have cubes at my office – they have these removable frosted clear plastic file trays that stick out of the wall. I was in the “shared laptop” cubicle trying to scan something and the scanner didn’t seem to be on. I stood up, leaned over it, and cleanly and efficiently jammed my eye socket unto the corner of the file tray.


Tears started–getting hit that close the eye causes the defensive tears to start. I then realized that I was about a biscuit away from sobbing like a baby, so I promptly picked up my stuff and left.

This is what it looks like. It doesn’t look like it hurts, but it does. I can’t even move my right eyebrow, so Dwight is without the benefit of my comical yet attractive facial expressions.

Here it is.

As you can see, my eyes are also swollen from the boo-hoo baby crying I did on the way home.

I feel wounded and silly, and I skipped school because I was still collapsing into tears every seventh breath or so.

I managed to write this blog without crying, so that’s a bonus. Poor me. Oh poor me.

Thanks for coming to my pity party.

First of all, it was stupid of me to plant my face into a pointy file tray. I’ll admit that. If the pointy file tray wasn’t looming…dangerously…waiting to jab itself into someone’s eye socket I would probably have just laughed it off–if all of my body weight hadn’t been behind the head that houses the eye socket that jammed into the pointy corner of the file tray and I hadn’t cried out–actually cried out in pain. It would have been funny.

It would have been also funnier if I hadn’t had to flee my place of business because I knew that the only way I could control the sobs would be by choking them back, thus making a two-year-old-sounding hiccupy crying noise, and if I could manage that I’d be lucky because every atom of my being wanted to cradle the uninjured half of my face in my soft, Target sweater-covered arms and p0ur every ounce of frustration, stress, and pain into wracking, cleansing, full-bodied sobs that would shake the already unsteady structure of my cube.

My poor Mom–I called her from the parking lot, tredging unsteadily with my school bag, computer, and gym bag in tow, trying not to cry visibly because all of the VP – level executives have offices with windows and I could just see some Veep saying, “Hey Liz, saw you sobbing in the parking lot the other day, I thought you’d gotten fired” or “Hey Liz, saw you crying in the parking lot. I told you shouldn’t wear heels that high.” I finally got to my car, and it was a blubberfest from Innsbrook to almost home.

Sheesh. I’m tired.

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