DON'T LEAVE ME HANGING

I was pulling up my stockings when I heard that all-too-familiar "ppphhccchhhtt!" noise. A small crack in the skin beside the front of my thumbnail had snagged the silk. I was a bit dismayed at the frayed fabric, but I was giddy at the arrival of such a perfect picking opportunity. Don’t roll your eyes or feign disgust; everyone loves a ripe hangnail they can pull clean off their finger. You love it! With care, I slid the nail of my ring finger underneath the loose skin and, practicing a perfected technique, pried the dried flap further up. And I dug. And dug. And dug. And I dug until I had achieved a piece of dried skin that rivaled a Pringle. For a good part of the evening, I entertained myself with the feeling of satisfaction you get when you slide a pokey hangnail over your fingers and under other nails. But then it happened. I did what we all do. I got too greedy and pulled it too far. My hangnail was no longer an innocent piece of non-feeling dead skin. I had ripped it down to the living flesh. So I panicked and tried to rip my friend off cleanly. But I knew I was being naive. Glowing ruby-red tissue throbbed in the crevice on my thumb. While looking for a pair of nail clippers to end the fiasco, my fingers took on a mind of their own and continued to pick at the wound. By now, the skin no longer resembled a potato chip, but rather a piece of raw flank steak. Any bystander would be able to tell my age by the exposed layers of skin. I swear I could hear the wound sizzle when the air from my whimpers passed over it. With no clippers to be found, I acted in desperation and grabbed hold of the hangnail. I closed my eyes and pulled as hard and as quickly as I could. I tore it off like a Band-Aid, with only fleeting pain. When I came to half-an-hour later, I humbly bandaged my wound (from thumb to elbow) and promised myself never to pick at anything again.