Band-Aids Please

It occurred to me last night that I used to love Band-Aids.  I don't know why or how, but somewhere in that infinite hour in which it took me to fall asleep this thought just popped into my head.  I used to want a bandage for everything.  I don't know why that was, but I needed one.  If I had a paper cut: Band-Aid.  If I scraped my knee: Band-Aid.  Sliver: Band-Aid.  The list goes on.

Of course, my mother never wanted to give me Band-Aids.  My injuries were never serious or life-threatening, therefore didn't warrant the use of a Band-Aid.

I thought they did.

I helped out in my little sister's preschool class over winter break.  One of her male classmates came into school at eight o-clock already decked out with six fingers full of bandages.  They were bright, colorful little strips that reminded me of litmus paper from my high school chemistry class.  Man, that kid was lucky.  He clearly didn't need those Band-Aids.  What could a three-year-old possibly do to his fingers that deserved all those bandages?

What's worse are the five minutes that followed him.  He began to play and have fun with clay and, of course, the bandages didn't hold up.  Or so he said.  As I watched him peel off each and every bandage and throw them in the garbage, I remember thinking: what a waste.  For one thing, there were no noticeable injuries.  For another, the Band-Aids were, in fact, plenty sticky and would have lasted for at least another half hour.

Maybe I was jealous.  I never got to wear that many bandages for no reason.  My mother didn't want to waste them.  Then, naturally, I grew up feeling weird putting on a Band-Aid, even when I needed it.  I felt like I was misusing them.  Even though my big-kid injuries would be gushing blood, I would always look at them and wonder if it would be okay to just air them out.

Okay, maybe not "gushing," but bleeding significantly.

Nonetheless, that kid was lucky.  His parents humored him and gave him bandages for every little thing. So did the preschool teacher, for that matter.  I think it was that same day, and this little boy claimed he needed a Band-Aid again.  The teacher humored him and put one on.  Then he said, "that's the wrong finger."  Well, the teacher wasn't upset, but she knew she had been tricked.  She put on a second bandage anyway.

I just stood there watching them.  Then, I thought to myself, what a wimp.  At three, I didn't need a bandage for anything.

Digits

I bend down and tie my shoes, a rare thing.  I usually just shove the shoe right on without even untying it.  I use my left index finger as a shoehorn while the right hand pulls up the tongue.  Then, I jam my foot inside.  It only hurts sometimes.  Next shoe.  Switch hands.  Then, I throw on my coat and zip it up.  I head out of the room, open the door and venture out.  The day begins.

The day first started with me smacking the snooze button on my alarm clock.  Sometimes it’s just out of reach of my short little fingers and I have to swing at it again before it wakes up anyone else.  My hands only hurt temporarily when I miss and hit the wire rack below.

The night before, I spent hours typing assignments and chatting online, my fingers working away much like they are now.  I don’t know how they do it or why.  My brain tells them to do it and they only get a few things wrong.  Even as I sit here typing this, I marvel at the speed at which my brain tells each individual finger to find its own individual letter and push down the key.  Wow.  How strange.  I think I just typed that in thirty seconds.  Now that’s fast.  Fingers are fascinating things.

I opened up these thoughts to one of my cousins, asking her what she thought about fingers.  She immediately thought about life without them and the things she wouldn’t be able to do.  Play piano, draw, write, use the computer.  A devoted pianist, computer freak and locksmith of sorts, she needs her hands.  Obviously.

She contemplated how weird fingers looked.  Hers are short and stubby, with short fingernails so she can better play her music.  “But man, I’d take music over nails any day,” she writes.

Fingers, simple little tools that perform so many things, and really aren’t that simple at all.  There are three bones called phalanges: distal, middle, and proximal.  The thumb doesn’t have a middle phalanx.  There are joints, fat deposits, flexion points, tendons, and blood vessels.  All these things allow for the different movements.  Bend.  Straighten.  Side-to-side.

I watch my hands as I type this paragraph.  They bounce back and forth as I delete and fix my mistakes.  Sometimes the fingers get it wrong.  But that’s OK.  They work hard.  Index bounces to the Y.  Middle finger bounces to the delete.  I never did listen in keyboarding class.  I always moved my entire hand to hit delete.  Numbers too.  I could never match up the correct finger to the number it was supposed to hit.  I kind of hate that.  It takes much longer to hit the key and reposition when you move your entire hand.  Oh well.  Now I use my fingers to navigate the arrow using my computer’s track pad.  Hover the arrow over post.  One click and it will be done.  Marvelous.

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