The last time I gave in to my fear of needles, I was too old for it; eleven or twelve if memory serves. But somehow, I still managed to crawl under the tiny end-table in the waiting room and cling to one of the legs for dear life. My mother literally had to pull me out kicking and screaming. I didn’t care how wide with fear the eyes of the younger kids in the room got or how many dirty looks I got from their mothers. I was terrified beyond reason.

Having recently moved to a climate much more conducive to winter illnesses, I decided, after much debate, to submit to a flu shot when the free clinic came to work today. These days, the fear is quelled by some very determined, measured breathing, sometimes accompanied by a nervous attempt at distracting conversation. It’s easier when the process involves something familiar. I’ve never been lucky enough to have the same nurse twice, but over the years I’ve become a huge if reluctant fan of the butterfly needle.

Oh, wondrous butterfly needle, how small is thy sting! How… um… symmetrical your wings.

Yeah… that’s about as good as it gets. Every time I see the nurse reach for that needle, I breathe a little easier and yet every time it’s over I’m still surprised to find the experience less horrifying than expected.

But the flu shot? The flu shot uses a different needle. Not having had one in recent memory, I couldn’t know what lay in wait beyond the cubicle horizon. People went in with pieces of paper and the remains of a smile from trading home remedies with others in line. They came out rubbing their wounds and complaining about a burning sensation. My imagination naturally insisted on turning the dispenser into a PVC PIPE OF DOOOOM… and-horrendous-pain.

Finally, it was my turn. Faking calm as best I could, I walked in and sat down in the empty chair. The nurse had hidden all of the unused syringes on the far side of a large, plastic disposal container. She was talking to me, but I couldn’t make sense of the words. Insurance card? Oh, right. I had left it in my purse on the other side of the room. The warning about the possibility of severe reactions requiring immediate medical care became my own personal pink elephant as I went to retrieve the card. I still couldn’t understand what the nurse was saying when I got back because now? Now she had the syringe in hand. It didn’t -look- big, but it was DIFFERENT and therefore it was probably going to hurt. A lot. And remember there was that burning thing everyone kept talking about. I tried not to freak out as she swabbed my arm. I couldn’t decide on where to put my gaze. In a last ditch effort to control myself, I settled on watching the needle, my lids approaching closure in synch with my impending doom. In the last inch, she stabbed, I blinked, and… it was… over? I… hardly felt a thing.

The needle was definitely not that big. In fact, it was smaller than my beloved butterfly, and much, much faster since it was dispensing rather than collecting. There was nothing left to do but wait for the burn. I waited with increasing trepidation all afternoon, warning co-workers along the way to call a doctor if they found me collapsed in a hallway. I have no idea what these people were talking about. My tongue got thick and tingly, but that seems to be the extent of it so far.

What burning sensation? Babies. Sheesh.

November 28, 2005
Hall of Justice — In a stunning turn of events, Captain Obvious announced his decision to team up with hero-trainee Oblivious Girl at the conclusion of this year’s Superhero Summit today. When asked why he was abandoning his previously staunch position of support of the lone hero lifestyle, Obvious replied, “two heads are better than one.”

Very little is known about Oblivious Girl thus far. New to the scene, she apparently earned the appellation while sitting on a gigantic body ball at her computer. “She was practically sitting on her ankles before she realized the thing had sprung a leak” gushed recent trainee graduate Iron Chef England. “It was a bloody brilliant maneuver, really. Her chin kept sinking lower and lower until it was eventually hovering just a few inches above the keyboard and she just kept on typing, completely away with the mixer. It was so subtle that we didn’t recognize it as a manifestation of her powers at first. We thought she was just doing another one of her barmpot chair poses.”

Oblivious herself could not be reached for comment, being absorbed in the task of finding a suitable replacement chair.

So there’s a widely held tradition around this time of the year wherein you think of something you’re thankful for and share it with family and friends. Sometimes it’s a silly thing, like cheesecake, or fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes. Often it’s something more sobering, such as the ability to spend time with a loved one, or simply to breathe.

Most people, even the crabby ones, put some thought into it. I wonder, though, how many of them really mean it and which ones just want to look good to others. How many people who claim to be thankful with heartfelt emotion during a holiday actually carry it over into the next week, the next month, the next year? It’s easy to be thankful for a day.

Take me, for example; a perfect case in point. I could tell you that I’m thankful for having a roof over my head, food for my table, a good job and the love of family and friends. I could tell you how grateful I am to be alive. These are the things I remind myself of throughout the year. Most of the time I even believe them. But I’m not thankful. Not really. Not when I spend entire weekends sitting like a lump in front of the computer or television instead of making the most of the real gifts I have in life. Not when I still can’t be bothered to put my full attention into regaining my health when I can get by with doing so much less.

It’s true what they say, actions speak so much louder than words. The question is, what do my actions tell me about what I’m truly thankful for? Apparently, it’s the ability to be lazy. You know what though? That’s actually not as bad as it sounds. I mean sure, it’s still embarrassing, but it does have value. I don’t have to spend every waking moment worrying about how I’m going to stay alive. That’s a huge gift.

I have the luxury of choice. But that’s the thing – choice can be crippling; I’ve seen it happen all too often. When the range of choices so far exceeds the imagination that the person is stunned by the sensory overload, what’s left is a confused stupor of inaction until some outside force exerts it’s will and the choices suddenly narrow to something significantly more manageable. Sadly, it’s a rare person who truly appreciates the gift of choice by making the most of it when the options are the most numerous.

So, this year I will say that I am thankful for the ability to see what I am wasting and hope that maybe next year I’ll be able to do better.