Behind the Ironic Column

Today was not a day I had scheduled to have blood drawn.  Those days come fairly frequently but not usually on a nice Friday morning.  My body, however, seemed to have other plans.

I was making another in my ongoing series of attempts to manage the paper jumbled around my desk.  After locating my trusty red Swingline stapler under another stack of files, I started to use it to staple a few wayward pieces of paper together.  I’ve had this particular stapler many years and have resisted exchanging it for a larger, more office-like stapler.  I like the small size and I like the fact that it’s red (purchased when neon colored office tools were not all the rage).  For some unaccountable reason,  it jammed as I tried to fasten the pages.  Not the usual jam where one staple has become crosswise in the tray and won’t let others feed through, but some new problem which caused the whole mechanism to lock up.

Peering closely at the underside of the tray, I could see a piece of wire sticking out from the side – where really there should be no wire.  So I picked up my all purpose Swiss Army knife and used one of the short blades to try to maneuver that piece of wire out of the way.  If there’s any significance at all to color, the knife is also red.  After twisting it this way and that, all the while keeping my fingers out of the way of the blade, I succeeded in getting the wire staple out of its position and was then able to open the mechanism.  I took out all the staples, reloaded them, and made sure the pieces fit back together in order.  Now I have to mention that this stapler is indeed fairly old and often recalcitrant.  It takes a substantial amount of pressure to cause it to staple a page cleanly without that irritating bump of wire caused by a  malformed staple. 

So I had it back together, had set the knife down on the table, and thought I would just test the stapler before I gathered up my pages again.  It stapled just fine – in fact, for a second I didn’t realize what had happened it was so smooth.  Then the pain started and I looked at my index finger.  There was a perfect staple, no bumps or twists, just a perfectly formed staple embedded in my finger.  In umpteen years of stapling this, that, and the other thing, I’ve never successfully stapled myself.  Indeed I’d have been willing to bet that this stapler would balk at stapling flesh.  I’d have been wrong. 

Of course, the fun part was pulling it back out.  Would have been easier to get hold of if there had been a little twist instead of perfectly smooth wire against skin.  And as soon as I did extract it, the blood followed.  Also red. 

Now my finger hurts and I’m sporting a new bandage.  And the little red stapler sits smugly on the shelf.

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