A Slice of Knife

I am scared of knives. I have been, as long as I can remember. I do not know why and do not care why. Perhaps my mother was kidnapped at knife point when I was in utero (admit it: you love when I get all technical), or a knife came to life one night and threatened to slit me open while I slept, or I was traumatized by that scene in “Carrie” where Carrie’s freakish, overprotective mom is ranting about her dirty pillows being on display in her bloody prom dress and Carrie is, thanks to telepathy (indicated by crazed eye-widening), hurling knives at her with dexterity to rival that of any old-time circus knife-thrower.
Whatever the reason, I am just not cut out to handle knives. Hand me a knife, and you can be pretty sure that by the time you can say, “Are you one of those ‘goth’ girls who cuts herself because it’s the only way you can, like, you know, feel something?”, I will be sucking on whatever part of my body the knife will have chosen to slice. This gets a bit tricky when the knife has accidentally slid (slidden?) down my spine or jabbed at the back of my head, but thanks to Pilates-induced flexibility and genetic-based dogged determination, it is not impossible. And a bit risqué when you learn that I only cook when completely unclothed.
Until a few months ago, I hadn’t bought a new knife in years. Unlike an old beau who had a different knife for every kind of food imaginable and one night was on the verge of scrapping the addition of tomato into a dish he was preparing until, yes!, he finally remembered where he put that new tomato knife that cost in the triple digits, my stock of knives was limited to one cheap all-purpose thing that was even duller than an episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond”. But when, a few months ago, I expanded my recipe repertoire from Tamari-Dipped Whole Tofu Block to Scrambled Tofu Avec Vegetals, which necessitates a fair bit of chopping, I knew I had to take the plunge.
Now that I have two new knives (one serrated, one straight-edge) (are these technical terms? is there special knife terminology?), I keep forgetting that they are not dull like the old one (which I’ve kept as a “backup”) (I have many “backup” items in my apartment, but that is another story for another day). I keep forgetting that knives are, like, sharp ‘n’ stuff, and that if my finger is too cozy with an onion I’m chopping, the slightest swipe with the blade can result in bloodshed. Which is what happened yesterday, with my left thumb.
And which is the point of my writing this in the first place. I realized that no one was around to “Oh no!” me or to “Awwww!” me or to “Jesuschrist, what the hell/fuck are you doing! That’s not a Fisher-Price knife, you imbecile!” me. So please feel free to send me telepathic sympathy. (Be sure to widen your eyes, real Sissy Spacek-like, for full effect.)
I suppose that in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I should just be thankful that skin grows back and that I’m still alive to chuckle and say, “When it comes to cookin’, I’m all thumbs! Or at least one thumb!”
(LOL, etc.)