The Band Aid Nazi

The Band Aid Nazi lives at my house.  Let me give you an example.  The other morning I nicked myself shaving, a common-enough result of performing a rare addition to my morning ablutions.  The Band Aid Nazi controls the keep and distribution of Band Aids (thus the moniker), so I had to shout, "Can I please have a Band Aid?"  The muffled response I heard through the wall was, "What for?" 

Really?  How often do you use Band Aids?  Are there other uses of Band Aids of which I am unaware?  I assure you that I, unlike others in my abode, am not in the habit of using Band Aids solely because an appendage hurts.  My rule of thumb is to only employ the aforementioned dressing if there is evidence of blood, and even then it must be flowing.  Balancing on one leg and applying pressure to the tiny gash, my response to the query was an insistent, "I need a Band Aid!"

Anticipating the arrival of the Band Aid, I made use of several tufts of Kleenex in quick succession.  It seemed like I waited an eternity, during which I heard a series of clanks, thumps and squeaks emanating from the Band Aid vault, AKA the other bathroom.  I hope to never need a Band Aid when I am home alone, for I will probably bleed to death before I find one. 

I was getting impatient.  Looking at my half-dressed reflection, my mental clock ticked toward our departure time.  Committed Readers are cognizant of our tight schedule in the mornings, and my insistence that it run with German precision (I refer you to More Than A Mom Moment).  This slip of my fingers was resulting in a huge monkey wrench in my clockwork.

The Band Aid Nazi arrived with several size and design options for me, including Elmo and mustaches, but was wary enough to stand just out of my reach.  "What do you need it for?" she demanded.  I made a swipe for it, but instead lost my balance and lurched forward.  She stepped back.  "I'm bleeding!" I snapped, and grabbed one out of her hand, afraid that if she were to see the size of my injury she might change her mind.  It happened to be one with a mustache on it.  I secured it firmly to my Achilles tendon. 

"That doesn't look very good with those capris," I was told. 

"Don't worry," I informed her, "I'm going to take it off before I get to work!  I just need it to stop the bleeding." 

I could feel the disapproval emanating from her, objecting to my "wasting" a Band Aid.

Acute Reader, you already know what happened next.  My morning staggered along its sad path to destruction and when I got to work, I had forgotten all about the Band Aid.  It wasn't until I was in line at the copy machine that someone said to me, "I like your mustache!"