Shock therapy for dummies
I was electrocuted for the third time in my life this past week.
I know that pleases some of you to hear, and for that, I'll go ahead and tell you: you're not at all welcome.
It was 220 volts. That's the same as sticking your hand right to the pole. It's not the same as the 110 volts you get by unplugging the television. I've done 110 before and now I've done 220, twice.
This time, it was a washer and dryer thing. I wanted to check to see if the plug-in on the dryer fit the outlet. It's something that has to be done. But it should never be done before making sure the breaker is off. It should never be done without a quick check for that. Never. And it's easy to check. If there's a light on in the kitchen, the breaker is ON.
Without thinking about much at all, I took the plug-in and shoved it directly into the outlet. It fit perfectly, but I was holding the prongs that connected to the dryer in my left hand and so my fiance, Whitney, thought I died. I might have died, for all I know. At a dinner a few days later, Whitney's 10-year-old cousin asked me if I died.
Somehow the juice blew a hole in the front of my shirt. It must have been from the flames that crawled up my chest, or something.
It hurt like a hog bite. I mean it hurt just like an 800-pound hog tore a chunck out of my arm. My teeth still hurt, and my left index finger is on temporary leave from typing. My middle finger is sore from all the extra work and from flipping off an outlet in my kitchen for about 20 straight minutes.
Now, everywhere I go, people are asking me if I'm any good with electrical stuff. They say they need dryers hooked up, and so forth.
These are my new names. And I deserve them.
A co-worker was curious afterwards if I felt more relaxed, less tense and anxious. We were trying to prove or disprove the validity of shock therapy treatment for crazy people. This is the kind of thing you do after electricity runs across your brain for longer than three seconds. You search for something useful to make the pain worthwhile. Call Johns Hopkins, I told him, I can rule out shock therapy. I'm a nervous wreck, and I'm pretty sure that outlet by the snack machine just growled at me.