Many of you remember the ‘shot’ days in elementary school. We queued up in line with the rest of our class while a doctor, several nurses and a few school officials prepped arms and then administered shots.
The girls were tougher than the boys wanted to admit. Few cried but even if they did no one thought anything of it. When the nurse trainee hit the bone in my arm with the needle, it hurt like crazy but I couldn’t say anything. The blood running down my arm hard to tell the story.
The wound was worth the pain when they hard to run around to find a Band-Aid making me the center of attention. No tears. No sniffles. The girls thought I was strong. The guys that I was tough. A little pain and blood were well worth paying for my newly enhanced status in the school.
Of course, there was always that red-headed girl who was always faster, tougher, smarter and more popular than anyone else in class who remained on the top of the social stack. My elevation to number two was OK. No one could pass her on the status chart.
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