Afraid to Launch: Band Aids Can't Stay on Forever

Ripping off a band-aid hurts. I typically avoid the process. I always hope it will fall off when I'm in the shower so I won't have to deal with it. However, band-aids never seem to just fall off.   They must be torn off.

Unfortunately, I recently ripped off a particularly sticky band-aid which was then followed by an expletive.

Oops.

Yesterday, I encountered an experience that mirrored closely the process of ripping off this same band-aid. My parents and I were in the parking lot of the Salt Lake City DMV on something south and something west near state street (I'm still learning this system you Westerners call a "grid"). We had egg shells in our egg whites and we couldn't keep our yolks together (Mhm. The previous sentence is an example of why we should rely on well established idioms and not make up our own.) We were getting the run-around from the DMV to register my car, and it was getting old. As the frustration with the DMV elevated, my desires to be back home in Denver also grew.

I was far from excited. My parents were abandoning me in Taylorsville, Utah. I use abandoning for two reasons: 1) There is no Deseret Book within Taylorsville city limits. If it's not safe for Deseret Book, how can it be safe for me? 2) There are 247 crimes per square mile in Taylorsville. In all of Utah, there are only 39 crimes per square mile. The numbers speak for themselves.

Reluctant to begin the farewell process, I stalled in the parking lot. I asked questions and made a few last minute requests. I suggested we get in dad's car. Once inside, I parked myself on the back seat of dad's car with the heat on full blast. I turned the switch so all the heat came out near my feet; slowly, the hot air warmed the leather seat I was sitting on until my buns were nearly fried.

I continued putting off the goodbye until it was no longer my choice. Eventually, Mom and dad called it.

Time to rip off the band-aid.

 I took a few, deep breaths. I hugged both my parents. I got in my car, and I drove away. The actual good bye was very short. But, let's just say if you had been there, you may have seen a few more tears than this version mentions.

 I was gone from their arms as quickly as a band-aid is ripped off and tossed aside. You take a few deep breaths, cautiously place the pads of your fingers at the edge of the band-aid, and you rip the band-aid away. Without fail, band-aids always leave that sticky residue on your skin that never seems to come off.

 I say the following with all the affection I can offer: Mom and dad, you are that sticky residue left on the scrapes around my knees and elbows. 

No matter how many good byes must be said, you both follow me everywhere I go.  At the grocery store, I bring canvas bags just like you, mom.  At the movie theater, I remove my shoes just like you,  dad.  I reflect, frequently, on the pleasant memories of my childhood and the next memories that will be made with you both.

Luckily, ripping off a band-aid only hurts for a moment.  Then, whatever wound was healing under the band-aid is now ready to continue healing on its own without the constant protection of a band-aid.  The wound eventually heals and needs no protection.  And at some point, that sticky residue rubs off.

....But....

I'm not ready to get rid of that sticky residue just yet.  And, I still keep a supply of Barbie band-aids on my one shelf in the very tiny linen closet I share with five other girls.  No matter how unnecessary those Barbie band-aids become, I'll still be reluctant to rip 'em off because no matter how old I get, ripping off a band-aid still hurts.