Recently, I fell and planted my head into a beer glass, which got me thinking about other goofy accidents I’ve had. None could be more bizarre than my ironing accident from two months ago. It was a minor event – thankfully – that didn’t leave any lasting scar or injury. Just an uncomfortable feeling in my pants for two or three miserable days.
About two months ago, I was at the height of my “competent adult” mentality, where I wanted to prove to the world that I could go through my life in a reasonable and responsible manner. Part of being a competent adult is ironing, I felt. Mature individuals don’t show up to work in wrinkled clothes that look like shit, and so I began getting out of bed fifteen minutes earlier than normal so I could do my ironing. Mind you, I hated every second of it, but once it was done I was able to at least look at myself in a mirror and think that I looked rather together.
One morning I had already ironed my shirt and pants, but while I was shaving (shaving every day is another part of the “competent adult” program) it dawned on me that I hadn’t ironed my undershirt. I thought about this while I took my shower. A mature individual doesn’t just iron the main shirt and say to hell with the undershirt. That’s what a lazy individual does. I washed my feet, turned off the shower, plugged the iron back in, and slapped the t-shirt down on the ironing board. Confident that I was going to look fantastic, there I stood, completely nude in the center of my apartment ironing.
But my mind drifted. I lost focus and in a flash the iron slipped off the shirt and briefly made contact with my body. It was only a second, a short kiss of the hot iron on my skin, but boy did I feel it. Especially due to where the iron landed.
I had, in a moment of carelessness, ironed my penis.
“Ahh!” I yelled, realizing what happened. “My penis!” I ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on the tip. My god, I thought, how bad did I get it? I looked at it. Already a small white discoloration had formed. I touched it and it felt hard, as if one tiny part of my Johnson was in a state of permanent Viagra.
Like I said earlier, it turned out not to be a big deal. In a few days, things were back to normal. I wondered, though, what I would’ve said if I was lucky enough to bring a girl home during the time of the discoloration. How would I have explained it?
“No, don’t be ridiculous, it’s not an STD. That’s crazy! See, what happened was, I was ironing and I slipped and I accidentally dewrinkled my Willy with the iron. That little white bump is just a burn. So it’s nothing, really! Get over here, baby!”
The whole “competent adult” thing is all about baby steps. Right now, the plan is in a bit of a decline. I haven’t been shaving every day lately and my clothes are wrinkled. Yet at the same time, my private parts have been unharmed by hot metal items. It’s a trade off I’m willing to make – sacrificing a bit of my adulthood for the safety of my manhood.