Recently I destroyed one of my fingers. It is healing well, but it makes for both a funny story and an interesting (to me) opportunity to comment on manhood.
As everyone knows, men do not feel pain the same way as everyone else. We feel pain in the sense that our bodies send us damage reports, but no man is ever "hurt" or "hurting" after some injury, unless he is delirious. A man can lose an arm in a wood-chipper, but all he'll say is "it stings". Which is all well and good, for feeling pain is evidence of unmanliness, and unmanliness keeps one from climbing that great pyramid of MANHOOD, by which all men are ranked.
As you may have noticed, I am in fact, a man. Therefore I cannot feel pain the same way as the majority of the population, and to make this story more resonant with the general population I will give my ideas on what it would have felt like to a NON-Man. Just so we're clear, I didn't feel any of the following, but those lacking in manhood would have.
My friend Elizabeth(Lizzy) invited me to her sister's birthday party at "On the Border". She picks me up, and off we go. We arrive, park, and exit her Altima. I later try to blame what happens next on the stubby-fingered Japanese who designed her Altima, but no one believes me.
I close my door while scanning the parking lot for possible threats (homeless, carjackers, mustard-covered children who wish to hug me), and my left index finger tells me I dipped it in lava. It doesn't hurt (MANHOOD!), but it does let me know that I need to fix the situation, and quickly.
I look at my finger, which is trapped between the two doors in a space smaller than the "O" on your keyboard and is oozing blood into said crack. It is also very much the wrong shape.
I politely ask Lizzy to unlock the door, and she says something I can't make out.
I politely ask again, this time using the word "please".
My finger is jokingly trying to get me to scream.
She repeats her sentence, telling me the door is already unlocked. Awesome.
I open the door and remove the remnants of my finger which, happily, are still attached.
Sort of.
The finger tip has an extra joint, and the skin between the knuckle and the nail is ripped and hanging off to the side like a fleshtone curtain. I can see active bleeding under the skin and also the backside of the nail, which I have never before laid eyes on.
Lizzy walks over to check on me, and I go into a low crouch on the ground, making animal grunting noises. Lucky for me, I'm a man and things like this don't actually hurt me.
We walk to the nearest building (an LA fitness) for a paper towel, and my accursed finger amuses itself by trying to make me pass out.
Lizzy starts up a conversation that I keep going with repeated use of "uhhhh" and "Arghhh" and the grunting noises I made before.
We get there and she head for the restroom to get a paper towel, while I fall into the nearest chair. And employee comes over and asks if I'm interested in a membership, but he keeps far enough away so that I cannot bite him.
I show him my finger (the injured one, not the other one) and he says "EWW! Oh man, I bet that hurts!).
I tell him it only stings a little (score one for me), while my vision goes dark.
Lizzy returns, and now I'm feeling much better. (I'd settle for just cutting my finger off to feel better instead of my whole arm).
I wrap the paper towel around my finger, and we head off to the restaraunt.
Upon arrival, I am dismayed to discover that Ginger (Lizzy's sister) has brought several adorable (and eligible) friends to her party, and obviously I must take on the added burden of running a charm offensive.
I greet her friends as sociably as I possibly can, deflecting all comments and queries as to why I have a bloody paper towel wrapped around my finger. ("Just one of those things... Doesn't hurt at all")
There's no way I'm telling them I slammed my door on my own finger and then ALMOST passed out.
Due to slow service, dinner takes approximately 14 hours, and I'm on top of my nine-fingered game (not that 18-19 year old girls are the most difficult people to keep entertained).
I make a trip to the bathroom mid meal and use a folding knife I keep with me to cut off the more horrible sections of finger-skin. Another man in the bathroom watches me do this with wonder in his eyes and awe on his face.
"That looks painful" he says.
"Not at all. Just tidying things up" I cheerily say. (My finger is trying to get one of my eyes to cry)
It's the best moment of the night.
I return to the table and eat with one hand, while making jokes and inwardly screaming whenever someone bumps my left arm.
I'm an unstoppable manliness machine, at least on the outside.
Dinner's over and we bid everyone goodnight, and I go home and bandage my finger while CHEWING 2 Tylenol PM.
But not because it hurt.
