Band Aid

 

I don’t know what it is about rubber bands, but they creep me out.  I know people have their “things” and they usually have some basis for those things becoming “things,” but this one has no basis in logic, and I’m very logical.  I’ve asked my mom—I endured no rubber band trauma as a young child.  Santa did not leave a bag of rubber bands in my stocking.  He did however, leave many lumps of coal.  My babysitters did not tie me to a chair with rubber bands to keep me under control, but I probably deserved it.  In school, my marching to the beat of my own drummer schtick caused no one to pelt me with them. I wore my braces for an extra year because I rebelled by not hooking those little bands between my braces.  In the Army, I wasn’t captured by enemy combatants and tied to a stake where they pulled my fingernails out with rubber bands.  In the Air Force, the airplanes I flew in and feared would go down at any moment were not wound up using a rubber band, they were just victim to the defense cuts and reduced maintenance.  Never will I be the one to try and beat the Guinness Book of World Records for the biggest rubber band ball.  Never.  When Office Depot did their ad campaign with the guy with the Afro buzzing through the offices with “Rubber Band Man” playing in the background, I stopped shopping there.  I went to therapy and tried to bring this up, but she thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there were other more pressing issues to resolve as she called for backup.  I’ve learned to live with this thing—I just rue the day my newspaper guy, who still can’t leave my paper at my doorstep, wraps one more freakin’ paper in a rubber band.

 Rubber bands are the devil’s handiwork. ~ Me

 Published on: Nov 2, 2006 @