Everybody is looking at my face. And no, it's not because the mug shot accompanying this column has given me unprecedented recognition on campus. Rather, it's because, as the doctor put it, I have a ""severely deep laceration"" on my chin. I wish I could say it's the result of a girl fight in which I kicked some major a$$, but that would be a lie. Unfortunately, the ""chincident"" (chin + incident) is due to my clumsiness.
I had 25 relatives in town for the Austin Peay football game. I was so excited I could barely sit still in class; when the teachers lectured all I heard was ""blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."" Once the family showed up, my weekend was quite the dichotomy. Events either made me smile/laugh, or want to bawl my eyes out.
(–) I ask my 11-year-old cousin if he wants to go to Madison when he's older (because obviously he needs to start thinking about these life decisions), he responds, ""Eh, I'd probably rank it number eight or nine among my favorite Big Ten schools."" This causes me to quietly pout like a child.
(+) After the game, this same cousin reports that Madison is in his top two. So now I guess we're on speaking terms.
(–) My uncle keeps calling Bucky a beaver. What!? I don't think he's doing this to be funny or be mean, I think he sincerely thinks Bucky is a beaver.
(+) My six-year-old cousin wants a tour of my bedroom. She looks at my dresser, points to a shot glass and asks, ""What's that?"" I respond, ""Uh. You know how when you're sick you take cough medicine from a little plastic cup? This is the same thing.""
(–) At dinner my aunt overhears me call her and the rest of the adults ""old fogies."" They travel from Chicago and Florida to see me, and I call them ""old fogies""? I feel like a jerk. But I was kidding. I swear!!!
(+) My cousins (not the six or 11-year-old—their fakes wouldn't work) and I go to a bar and hog the jukebox. T.I. and Rihanna's bumping jam starts to play. I don't know about you, but when Rihanna instructs me to ""live my life,"" you bet your bottom that I listen.
(–) Somewhere between doing the sprinkler and the lawnmower, I fail to notice that a passerby just spilled their drink. Five seconds later I ate shit like no other. My chin got the brunt of it. (Side note: ""eat shit,"" means ""fall."" I used this term in a previous column, and afterwards I was afraid some people were unfamiliar with the phrase and took it literally. Which would just be… gross.)
(+) I get back up on my feet and continue to do the sprinkler because I'm a trooper and a stupid spill isn't going to stop me from having a good time. I'm no pansy.
* Everything from here on out is pretty down hill.
(–) Mortified, my cousin says, ""We need to go to the bathroom; you're bleeding and it's dripping down your neck."" I respond, ""I'm not trying to impress anyone."" (Hey Kathleen, you're an IDIOT.) She replies, ""Uh okay. But that doesn't really have anything to do with this.""
(–) The next question is whether or not I need stitches. I insist that I don't. In a very serious tone, my cousin lays down the law, ""Look. As the oldest one here, I'm telling you to go to the hospital. If on your wedding day, you have a huge scar on your face because I didn't force you to go to the ER, I'll never be able to forgive myself. I can't have this on my conscience."" In hindsight, I'm glad she was concerned about my hypothetical wedding and not so concerned about possible infection.
(–) My brother Kevin and I arrive at the ER. After giving all my information to the receptionist at UW Hospital, I ask her how much trips to the ER cost. She nonchalantly responds, ""Oh, I'd say up to $3,000."" SCREW THE STITCHES! SCREW INFECTIONS! I WANT THE SCAR! GIVE ME THE SCAR! (At this point there is some hardcore crying.)
(–) My brother informs me that he just called my dad—he's on his way. Now the crying has amplified to a disgusting/embarrassing level. My dad planned this whole trip; it is three in the morning, meaning he was asleep; NO ONE wants to tell their dad they were doing the sprinkler and just lost control.
(–) I don't see a doctor until six in the morning.
(–) I sleep at my parent's hotel, and at 11:00 a.m. my mom drives me to Panera because I'm craving a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich. I wait in line for 10 minutes only to hear the cashier say, ""We stopped serving breakfast a half hour ago."" (Cue the McDonald's scene from Big Daddy.) I respond, ""Do I look like someone who wants to hear that? Do you not see these stitches? Do you not see the blood stain on my Wisconsin football jersey, which, by the way, I've been wearing for over 24 hours? Give me my damn egg sandwich!"" Well, that's what it sounded like in my head. In reality, I replied, ""Oh,"" and walked away.
(+/–) When I get home I receive a text from my brother Matt that says, ""Kathleen, keep your CHIN up! It'll be better soon."" That made me laugh. Which is usually a good thing. But when you have stitches on your chin, it kind of hurts to laugh.
