I should have been a nurse.

When I was younger, I was sure I was going to be a nurse. I loved taking care of people. I did well in my science classes. When my dad had his finger injury, I helped him clean his bandages despite the fact that his newly shortened fingers made me wretch a little. I was great at the first aid (thanks, lifeguarding class), I knew all about direct pressure and the like, and I was ready to don some scrubs and SAVE THE WORLD. Or at least some people.

Well. After a few years, I decided that to be really great in science, I'd have to study too much. Oh, and blood? Face it, it totally grossed me out. There was no way I could be a nurse. I'd be awful, passing out at someone's injury or gagging as someone coughed a little too hard. Of course, I decided to be a lawyer so I could still help people. JOKE'S ON ME, RIGHT?

Of course, I get into a relationship with yet another lawyer. Turns out, he's slightly accident prone. Well, honestly, it really is a development as of late, but as of yesterday, it has earned him the nickname of "First Aid." (His nickname before this was "Neighborhood Watch." I am fairly certain that he is the most tolerant individual in the planet. Well, that and the fact that he can take it as well as he can dish it out. He's a teaser as well.) You see last night was the second time that P.I.C. literally DRIPPED blood on my floor due to an injury.

About a month before I moved, a wine glass was broken in my apartment. Now, there are two stories as to exactly whose fault this was. My version? P.I.C. knocked it on the floor. That very action broke the glass. Duh. His version? I CLEARLY had put the glass too close to the edge which put it in a dangerous position to be knocked to the floor. Therefore his simple motion of getting a glass of water was not the reason (OR PROXIMATE CAUSE, for all you lawyers out there) for the actual breaking of the glass. In any event, the damn glass was knocked to the floor and shattered into many shards of glass. Of course, the light was off at the time. P.I.C. had shouted for me, because sadly he was barefoot and was afraid to move. I rushed to the kitchen, turned the light on and proceeded to sweep around him and all around the kitchen. P.I.C.: 1, Wine glass: 0. (Although it should be Fabulously Awkward: 0 because I sure hate to lose one of my long-stemmed drinking devices. Wah.)

The following evening, P.I.C. once again went into my kitchen for some water. (I know. The dude is a camel. No one else needs a sip of water every five seconds, I swear.) No sooner had I heard the thud of the cupboard and the faucet turn on and off when P.I.C. began to swear. I would repeat the words, but even at the age of thirty, I fear my mother would drive to Chicago and wash my mouth out with soap for even REPEATING his words. What happened to cause P.I.C. to scream like a little girl with the vocabulary of a truck driver? Oh, yes. He stepped on a shard of glass that I had apparently failed to sweep up the night before. (Once again, there is a dispute in this story as to WHO was at fault for this chain of events. I won't get into the specifics of this specific argument, but I will tell you that I was not the one picking glass out of HER foot, so perhaps I won no matter whose fault it was.)

Remember how I mentioned before that I hate blood? Well, P.I.C. was dripping blood everywhere. I turned off my lawyer brain (YOU BROKE THE GLASS, NOT ME) and dragged his hobbling self into the bathtub. Many things transpired that night, most of which I blocked out because of my dislike of blood. I thought I got the glass. Turns out, I didn't. He had to go to the podiatrist. There was a nasty tweezing of shard of out his foot. The story makes my stomach curl. I heard it no less than twelve times. I am over it. I refuse to tell it here.

In any event, fast forward to last night. We have lived together for three and a half months. P.I.C. is loading the dishwasher. All of a sudden, he starts in with that swearing little girl scream again. He is cut himself again. On broken glass? NO. On some random piece of the dishwasher sticking out. Once again, he has dripped blood on the floor. I dragged him to the bathroom once again and applied direct pressure (YAY for my first aid knowledge), cleaned his wound and bandaged it up.

He is healing nicely today. Sigh. See? I should have been a nurse.

Also. I am stuck with my First Aid. Why? I forgot to mention, he asked me to marry him. Wheeeeee!