I'm a soft serve

A friend of mine (okay.. a boy.) was hurt on the weekend, bashed actually. In his place of work. By people he knew who thought he had stolen something. (he hadn’t). My immediate response to news like this is a shocked horror, and an overwhelming desire to turn into a big ol’ softie. Like a really big softie. We’re talking marshmallow grade. A soft serve. (also I couldn't find a nice picture of a marshmallow. tricky.)

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When friends are going out I’m the kind of gal who might remind them to bring a cardie ‘cause it’s a bit chilly outside. I ask ‘have you eaten?’ and ‘you need some rest’ and wring my hands a wee bit. In the case of an injury or the circumstance being described, I wince and it almost hurts me to hear it. It hurts to be this empathetic. I never watch those jackass boys for that reason. Painful.

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I’ve done my share of first aid, in a calm-ish and proficient kind of way, it’s afterwards I turn into the doughboy. When people have been hurt, in the case of boys (not all of them. ones I like) I want to hold their head in my lap and stroke their forehead, and kiss it better. When friends hurt, I want to hold their hand, make a casserole, tuck them up with a big quilt and a cup of tea. And kids, well you have to hug them and comfort and give them a band-aid (those magical things) and wipe their tears away (without being too soft of course.)

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I refrained from doing any of these things because I'd rather he gets to know me a little and knows I'm not mothering him at all. I'd do it to everyone.

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So be warned. If you have been injured, when you tell me about it, I will wince, wring my hands together, and make you a casserole. That’s the kinda gal I am.