keeping privates private

I was beside myself with joy getting ready for my official First Aid CPR course. With great pride, I wore my Sunday’s best – tights, sweater dress, and billowing scarf. I should have sensed something twas up when my coworkers begrudged me for getting dolled up for a course in the thematics of blowing down the airways of the unconscious.

Our instructor was burly with curly hairs cascading down his neck. He swore a lot and told us just the most yadorable stories about his children.

I want to make it very clear that he provided no snacks, no refreshments, nor playdough for those of us with paying attention problems. However, he did bring a long numerous dummies, many of them strange robotic babies made of silver plastic.

I minded my own business except for asking to borrow pens from the other scholars at my table. I was not being a menace of any sort. To my dismay, teacher begged for a volunteer to demonstrate a fancy-saving-life-move to the class. I did not subject myself this. Rather my fellow medical students chanted my name. The instructor told the rest of the class to get up, stretch, and then gather round to watch.  I laid down on the carpet in front of the entire class, submitting to peer pressure as always.

Mr. Instructor then rolls me over in my dress which is bad enough. (This whole idea is to demonstrate what to do with folks that are on the ground unconscious and simultaneously might aspirate.) Then he started to spread my legs to make a kick stand so I don’t fall into my theoretical pile of vomit. Obviously, I resist this positioning of my legs. If there is one lesson that follows a lass from childhood is that little girls must now show their panties. It is tasteless, uncivilized, and lascivious. My insensitive First Aid teacher told me to stop moving around and asked me what exactly I thought I was doing. Sorry I don’t want to show my hoo haa to the general public.

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