It’s true, I did. When I was 17, I was walking through our carpeted dining room and stepped on a sewing needle. It pierced the bottom of my right foot and came out through the top on the side below my small toe. I sat down in one of the chairs and calmly said, “Mom? I need you to come here for a second.” She was in the living room and asked “What? What for?” At this point, I was starting to freak out. I said, “I need you to come take this out, right now!” She walked over and I lifted my foot up toward her. She looked down, looked back up at me, and then back down at my foot. She took a deep breath and crouched down in front of me. The needle was pretty far in there, but hey! A thread was still in it! Surely pulling on the thread would help get the needle out. Of course, it was a self-threading needle. Because that’s the kind of luck I have. So she gently tugged on the thread, hoping it wouldn’t pop out of the needle and cause me more pain. Once she got enough needle to grab on to, she very swiftly removed the needle from my foot.
I was in a lot of pain and still freaking out because, well, there had been a needle through my foot. But that was all eclipsed by one thing. I was bleeding on the carpet. And my glee at that overcame any pain that I felt because for my entire childhood, no matter what happened, I was told to never bleed on the carpet, get that bloody stump onto the tile. So I started laughing because yes, finally I was bleeding all over that carpet. Of course my mother noticed me and after collecting herself (she had just pulled a needle from my foot, you see) she yelled “Get on the tile!” Which I did, after making sure to bleed on the carpet the whole way there. And honestly, it all seemed completely worth it at that point.