Allimom to the Rescue!

First, screw the Haiku idea. I'm just too long-winded to write anything of substance in fewer than twenty words. So to those of you who think my blog entries are too long, I suggest getting some capitalistic motivation and starting up a sort of Cliff's Notes for AEiF. I'm not sure how much money could be made from such a venture, but it would give you one more obligation, which is precisely what you need.

Anyway, here we go with yet another long-winded entry. If I had to give you the short version up front, it would be this: I have an insanely strong need to help others--especially when it comes to first aid. Feel free to read on or not read on. The choice is yours. Just know that there are medications that could help if you consistently find yourself unable to concentrate long enough to finish reading my blog entries.

Last week, I was at work in the office when I realized something: There has got to be something wrong with me. I know, I know. You all figured that much out a long time ago. Shut up.

Seriously though. There has got to be something terribly, horribly wrong with me.

Why? Good question. It would be nice if, just once, I would stop repeating my conclusion long enough to state a reason, huh? Too bad it won't happen.

Let us examine the title of this post: "Allimom to the Rescue!" Now, we already know I have a helper complex--insomuch as that means I won't accept help. What we have not examined thoroughly is the extent to which I am compelled to help others. And thanks to my job as a receptionist, I have a perfect example.

I was at work, just sitting at the desk doing nothing. Occasionally I would get a phone call or check my email, but for the most part I was just getting paid to do nothing. Then a student came in; he had a hold on his account and needed to know why. I explained the situation to him, then sent him on his way.

Approximately an hour or so later, the same student returned. He claimed that he had taken care of the holds put on his account by the bursar and needed to talk to someone about the hold placed by our office. So I talked to the appropriate person and then returned to the reception area to explain the situation yet again.

But something was different this time. This time, as I explained that the hold had been removed mere moments before he entered the office, something caught my eye: blood. His finger was cut. So I stopped mid-sentence and asked whether he needed a bandaid. (I love how certain brand names have become synonymous with certain nouns. Ah. . . capitalism. . .)

He said yes, so I told him to stay put and then toodled to the back of the office to retrieve a bandage that happened to be marketed as a bandaid. As I looked through the first-aid kit, I noticed two additional items that could potentially be of use: antibiotic ointment and alcohol swabs. I chose to take the latter, but not the former--a choice that made no sense.

As soon as I got back to the reception area, I placed the supplies on the front desk and opened the alcohol swab, then reached out for his hand. No. . . no. . . I could not be the normal person and just hand him a bandaid. Instead, I forced him to let me play nurse as I asked what he had done. Turns out he cut himself while cutting a sandwich.

From the looks of his finger, that must have been one hell of a sandwich. He had to have been applying a certain amount of force to create a cut that deep, and I just don't know of any sandwich that would warrant such force.

But that's besides the point. I quickly noticed that the antibiotic ointment would have been a good idea. So I told him to stay put yet again and went to the back of the office. (I'm amused that he didn't do what any normal person would have done: grab the bandaid and run.)

So I got the antibiotic ointment, returned to the desk, and finished playing nurse. All the while, I was lecturing him to be sure to keep neosporin (another great brand name) on the cut to prevent infection. And do you know what he did? He tried to shift the conversation back to the holds on his account and the question of whether he would be able to register for classes now. Silly boy. . . trying to talk about something I would have reason to know. . .

There's gotta be something wrong with me. (But if you're ever sick or injured, feel free to come find me or call me. I'd love to help. And if I can't, I'll at least play intermediary and find someone who can.)