I have learned something about telling people what not to do. (Incidentally, I love that show What Not to Wear. Call me, Clinton and Stacey!)
That thing will become irresistible.
Don’t eat any of my fresh-baked cookies. Don’t look for your Christmas gift. Don’t picture Brad Pitt naked.
See what I mean? [Hold on, now I’m thinking about…um…cookies. I swear.]
My friends and family all know that I bruise like a peach. Not all of the time, but when my platelet count is low (and I don’t always know when that is), scratching an itch or gently bumping into something will turn me into Courtney Love post-mosh pit brawl. It’s like my own personal party trick!
Even when my count is high, I encourage people not to poke, prod or smack me. I wouldn’t have minded a year ago, but now I get nervous about it. If my count is very low, and it has been, there’s always a teenytinyminornegligible chance that I could start spontaneously bleeding internally in my brain and say my final sayonara to this mortal coil. It’s very unlikely. But when my mom playfully smacked my head a couple months ago, you’ll understand why I might have started yelling, “What do you think you’re doing?!”
We laughed; it was funny. And I didn’t die. Whew!
But I’m still considering wearing a car alarm necklace just in case people get too close.