Not my best day

I hate needles. This is no secret. My dad used to have to surprise me with my annual flu shot. He'd lie in wait and when I walked in the front door and he'd pounce and say, "Get in the car," and I'd spend the five minute ride to the doctor's office trying not to hyperventilate. As soon as I was in college, I celebrated my newfound freedom by chucking the flu shot tradition and I've never looked back. Ah, glorious liberty!

Well, this year Jen has stipulated that I must get a flu shot or risk being denied the opportunity to hold my niece. (Vaccination Nazi!) And my mother has been acting as Grand Inquisitor in this whole charade, haranguing me daily about the shot because... I don't know, she thinks I'm going to not get it and then lie and say I did? I... don't know. It's a lot of pressure!

So, today was flu shot day at work. Horrid. Horrid. The conference room had the stench of a hospital ward, I can only assume from the off-gassing of the syringes and gauze. People were standing around, chatting merrily, as if we weren't all waiting around to get a piece of metal jabbed into our flesh. I stood in line, trying not to feel woozy, as my co-worker made ill-conceived blood-spatter jokes involving the show CSI. I wanted to make a few ill-conceived jokes of my own involving his receding hairline, but I am a lady.

So Mom, the deed is done. You can stop asking me about it. But I think I should at least get some extra baby-holding time for my ordeal.