The most exciting thing that happened to me today was the moment I sliced open my little finger with a breadknife while cutting a baguette at the deli counter.
Experienced, in no particular order: The moment of disbelief. The cutting sensation an instant before the pain kicked in. The pain itself. My own gasp of shock. The blood welling between my own skin and the polythene glove.
I couldn't see at first how bad it was. I went up to the washroom, tugging off the gloves as I went. I stuck my cut hand under the cold tap, flexing it gingerly to see how bad the damage was. The cut was small but deep, just under the joint. It lipped open as I moved the digit, bleeding freely. I watched it, a narrow little mouth, speaking to me of some essential part of myself that I had somehow mislaid, a shock of the real in the bright desert of a weary ten-hour shift.
Red swirls shaded to pink against the porcelain, faded, were gone. I pressed the cut closed and went kitchenette where the first-aid box was kept, the pain still a low thrum, pulsing. Sliced, I was alive again.
And I got to wear one of those special blue plasters, too. Kewl.