April 28, 2009
When I was growing up and felt some sort of illness coming on I would, of course, complain to my mother. Her standard answer was "you feel fine to me". The she would give me some form of a subtle dismissal, like turning all of her attention to the dog. I rustled up no sympathy whatsoever.
Much like a Jedi Warrior, my mother did not "believe" in being sick. I think that because of my lack of receiving illness inspired nurturing from my mother, I now feel the need to really sell my case if I am not feeling well. If I start feeling icky, I talk about it incessantly. I use eye rolls and lazy hand gestures. I slouch a lot. I fear I may even be whiny. This is only one of the many reasons that people feel sorry for my spouse.
On that note, I have been having some feeling of malaise lately and complained so much that my husband insisted I take myself to the doctor. I am pretty sure he just wanted me to stop talking to him for an hour. Of course I payed $55 to weigh myself fully clothed and to have my doctor instruct me to try some over the counter medicine.
As I was leaving the office to drive to SuperTarget and purchase my $55 prescription for the $14 over the counter meds, I approached the elevator area to see the doors closing. I panicked irrationally, as if this elevator was going to be the only one for the next 40 days, and I cried out "Hold the elevator!". I then started a mini-sprint towards the closing doors. Some helpful petite lady opened them for me. I promptly repaid her kind act by misjudging the speed of my sprint, not allowing for proper braking, and sort of clobbering her.
I had a "stopping spot" all picked out and she stepped into it at the last second. It was an unfortunate combination of a mad chicken attack, a basketball foul, and a sleazy guy grinding on you in a club.
I desperately tried to regain my balance while hovering over this woman like a clammy umbrella. I ended up doing something that resembled a Jack Russell terrier humping his favorite pant leg. She graciously laughed it off and made a joke about running track. Then I proceeded to exuberantly inform her of my glory days of high school sprinting. I was so spastic that I almost invited her over to see my medals on my old letter jacket.
I was mortified that I had accidentally accosted this poor woman who kindly held the door for me so that I wouldn't have to wait the 60 whole seconds for the next elevator. Apparently my mortification of myself was nothing compared to the gentleman that shared the elevator with us. He just stepped back into the corner and gave me the hairy eyeball for the three floors we descended. No smile. No smirk. Only disgust. I then decided I was in the slowest elevator in history and wished I had simply jumped out the third floor window for a quicker, less painful exit. Still, I held myself together all the way out to the vehicle (if you call hurling my sunglasses onto the pavement, talking to myself like Gary Busey and sweating profusely "holding it together"). Times like these I am so thankful for my blond hair, as people tend to wonder less about my special moments that way.
I guess my mother was right, as usual. I should have just told myself that I was fine and saved myself the humiliation that venturing into public normally brings me.