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Annie, Annie, Are You Okay?

As a gift for my office's open house last month, the Red Cross offered free CPR and first aid training for the staff and I jumped at the offer.

I took the eight(gah)-hour-long class last Saturday, which meant I couldn't spend the day on the snowy slopes with my two big brothers (not like I had been invited anyway) (but even if I had been invited, I couldn't have gone) (because I don't like snow) (or my brothers) (so there).

A CPR instructor came to my school when I was in seventh or eighth grade, and we all got certified then, but I guess those certifications only last a year. Did they used to last longer? Because I remember mine being good for three years.

But then I was 13 at the time and frightened I would have to put my mouth onto the mouth of a stranger, let alone a boy, so I don't think I was really paying close attention to when I would need to be re-certified. And there could be vomit involved? MORTIFYING.

But the class went well, the other attendees were nice, and I'm afraid I ambushed the guy sitting in the row behind me who was flirting with my partner. I could have sworn he was related somehow to someone I went to school with: he looked amazingly similar, the same eyes and voice even. Instead I think I frightened him with all of my small-world small-town talk.

I was repaid by being the last one to take the CPR test, my instructor and myself the last two people in the building. I passed the test and my instructor told me that I had "perfect rhythm."

Ahem.
Of the chest compressions and the rescue breaths!
Thirty and two! Thirty and two!

I am still way more proud of my perfect rhythm than of passing the test, because even the man in front of me who barely spoke English and kept getting the verbal multiple choice questions wrong passed his certification. He hooked the mannequin up with electricity and then reached out and touched it. Way to electrocute yourself, guy!

He may have passed the test, but did he have perfect rhythm? I think not. I am the valedictorian of CPR. I bet ya'll weren't aware of the extent of my awesomeness.

When I'm not "curing" a nasty (horrible) (horrendous) (oh my gawd please shut up) cough with a well-placed pillow and firm grip, I'm busying curing the world of cardiac arrest and cancer and other sundry ailments by my awesome rhythm.