I have a new hobby.

 

My body, unbeknownst to my brain, has taken up the pastime of getting burned in old lady-ish ways.

 

I am typing this with my hands.

 

My right hand is happy, smooth and doing relatively well, as hands go. No aches, no complaints.

 

My left hand is covered with gray, peeling skin because I decided to open, directly onto the hand, a container of vegetables I was steaming.

 

My brain had no idea, of course. My brain is tired these days. A combination of new motherhood, a light case of insomnia and being in my thirties, most likely. Perhaps an occasional alcoholic drink too late in the day is to blame as well.

 

I think this time of weakness and distraction is why the body is able to sneak these autopilot-induced afflictions upon it. 

 

So I burned my hand steaming vegetables.

 

Such an elderly way to burn my hand. I might as well have burned it heating up cat food for the more finicky of my 25 cats. Or whilst ironing my lace doilies.

 

A few months ago, my thumb had the bubbles of 3^rd degree burns rippling across its shiny, red epidermis, thanks to a beef stew.

 

The best part being that I don’t eat beef stew. I can’t. I am actually tested-by-the-allergist allergic to red meat.

 

My husband and I were driving to Norman, Oklahoma to his alma mater to see an OU football game. His parents watched our son for us, so we made them a pot of beef stew in our crock pot to eat as a thank you.

 

(Flowers, schmowers. In the Midwest, we give BEEF as a thank you. Don’t worry about it. Mind your business.)

 

I managed to burn my thumb by pulling the lid off to give the gross stew a stir right before we left. I scooted the pot closer. It sloshed. My skin disintegrated and blistered.

 

Never mind that I had spent 20 minutes straightening my hair with a glowingly hot ceramic straightening iron before I did this. Nope. That would be an entirely too young way to burn myself.

 

My husband pointed out that he had matching burn scars on the very same thumb. We decided that was terribly romantic, in an Angelina and Billy Bob sort of way.

 

It hurt so bad, even wrapped in gauze with numbing ointment, that I was having trouble ignoring it on the way there. Once we arrived in Norman, I was forced to drink many beers. Just for the pain relief, mind you. Ahem.

 

Lest you think that maybe my body’s new hobby of getting burned in old lady-ish ways is merely a sign that I should stay out of the kitchen, I must tell you that I even managed to get burned in my own bed. This is where the old lady part comes in full force.

 

It’s cold here in the winter. I do not like the cold. There are few things I dislike more than being cold.

 

When I moved to Los Angeles in 2001, I said to myself, “Ahhhhh, Self. We found our open-minded people, we found our warm climate, we are home. Way to go, Self.” Inner high-five.

 

I was never coming back to this shit. I even sold all of my sweaters and winter clothes to the used clothing store on La Brea. Nope. Never gonna need those silly things again. Those ridiculous garments are for cold people.

 

Then I got knocked up, decided that I couldn’t imagine my kid not having a backyard and only parks full of homeless people and drug addicts to play in while growing up in a tiny apartment with his over-worked parents.

 

Damn. Back to the land of affordable housing and trees.

 

And cold. Don’t forget that part.

 

Sure wish I could get my chocolate brown shearling coat back from that store on La Brea. I loved that fucking coat.

 

This winter, I was occasionally driven to sleeping in my zip-up L.L. Bean fleece robe, like a giant, wizened and sun-damaged infant, floating in one of those larval-looking sleep sacks.

 

But as a lifelong naked sleeper, this made me crazy. My OCD (Quirks! They’re just QUIRKS!) absolutely would not allow pajamas, so I started putting a heating pad in my bed before I got in, to heat it up.

 

I would warm up my spot and crawl in bed to lie on top of the heating pad, feeling warmer than I had all damned day long. Like a cat in the window-streaming sun patch. Sometimes I would fall asleep on the heating pad. Ahhhh.

 

Until I burned my hip. Yes, my hip. My old lady hip.

 

At least I didn’t break it, right?

 

Right where the hip bone pokes out, I discovered a blister one day. It didn’t really hurt, so I’m kind of embarrassed to admit that I didn’t notice it immediately. I think I was putting on lotion and kind of went, “Huh? What’s this? Is it a bug bite? Eeeeew. It’s a blister!”

 

I hadn’t used the heating pad the night before, so it was on my hip at least a day before I realized it. It made me feel out-of-touch with my body, like one of those fat women who suddenly gives birth without realizing they’re pregnant.

 

Big nasty blister on my hip.

 

Yup. Try to control yourselves, fellas. I’m spoken for.

 

Maybe next time, for a grand finale in my series of creepy old lady burns, I’ll try to burn a bulging varicose vein. An elderly injury coup de grace.

 

It’s going to be fantastic.

 

Stop shuddering. You’ve seen worse.

 

 

I hope you’re having a lovely day, my friends.