Paper Cut

I was entirely planning to sit down and talk to you about the amazing weekend Christopher and I had.

I was going to include a story about the guy at the front desk of the Westin who congratulated us on our five years together and commented that he and his boyfriend had just celebrated their second - and how happy he was for us.

I was going to mention the quiet time when we almost had the pool and whirlpool all to ourselves, and the view from the Banker's Boardroom on the 10th floor which we both snuck into, just because.

I wanted to tell you about the great dinner at Murray's, where the waitress brought us a fudg-y cake with a candle in it to celebrate our five years, and Christopher actually made sure that we got our picture taken.

And I was even going to throw in the fact that we capped off the weekend at home with TV and a delivery pizza, which gave the whole weekend a nice tie-in to the first night Christopher and I met.

But, you see, as I was tossing yesterday's newspaper into the recycling this morning, I got a paper cut. And it's been driving me crazy all day. It's right inside the second knuckle on my left pointer finger. Which means that any typing I do I feel it. At work today, when I decided to be good and use some Purell on my hands after sneezing, I got alcohol in that cut. Yowch. It wasn't quite as bad when I got fresh tomato juice in it at dinner time (while making a fresh tomato BLT with one of the two solitary tomatoes from my huge tomato plant), but it still made itself known.

And now, tonight, as I sat down to write all about the weekend, my blasted paper cut was once again stretching and flexing and distracting me in all the wrong ways.

Somehow I suspect there's a metaphor in there just waiting to happen.