Skip to main content

Self, Censored

I've always wondered how memories get etched into our minds. Out of all the things one experiences in life, what makes a certain instance stand out from the rest-- even if it is a mundane one?

For me, memories are like snapshots. I actually think of them as Polaroids, for some reason-- white border and all, stored in my mind.

One memory that is completely ridiculous that stands out involves Bob Saget (aka Danny Tanner from "Full House"). It was fifth grade and I was making a cake in our tiny apartment kitchen. We had on (an HBO, I think) comedy special featuring his not-family-friendly comedy. For some reason, a bit where he discussed riding the train at the Houston Zoo with his family stands out. Apparently, he could see the conductor's buttcrack. Saget kept repeating "crack in my butt" during his gig.

That was all he could think during the train ride.

Totally random, totally out of context, but this bit is etched into my subconscious in a way that will never, ever leave.

I thought of the "crack in my butt" gig yesterday when I was at the podiatrist, getting new orthotic inserts for my Old Lady Feet.  I ordered these things in November, needing them for February. I was told six weeks max and let's just say...it took many phone calls plus my showing up in the office TWICE before they finally arrived...in May.

Honestly, I think they were in the office the whole time and the lady in charge was either too disorganized or lazy to deal with them.

So I'm standing in the office with her and I'm very aware that these orthotics might have gotten this lady in trouble. Granted, not my circus as it was her job to get these to me, but I digress. (Might I add, in the future, returning a customer's phone calls and notes to call her might work a bit better? No?)

The lady is trying to shove the orthotics into my shoes. She's a big gal, definitely could take me in a fight (even with both hands tied behind her back) and she's a bit intimidating.

She tells me, "it might take a while for you to get used to these."

This pops into my brain: "Like an underwire bra."

Don't say it, I thought. She's not going to think you are funny or adorable.

We chat for a second and she says it again. "It might take a few days to get used to having them on."

My brain: "Like an underwire bra!"

Damnit, I think. Don't say it. Seriously. Don't say it.

She mentions her sister has orthotics and which shoes she does and doesn't wear now. Once again, she tells me that it takes most people 3 or 4 days to get comfortable.

"Like an underwire bra!" My brain is still begging me to say it. I refuse. I'm not going down this road. I know this is a dead end road to nowhere and I'm gonna learn to shut my mouth once and for all.

The conversation is slowing down and I know I'm about to get out of there with my dignity intact. I'm really working on learning to censor the idiotic things that pop into my mind. Eighty percent of the time, I'm not exactly doing a good job. The other twenty percent the conversation was so short I could hang on.

I'm high-fiving myself at this point. Look at me, I'm a big girl. I kept my mouth shut for this whole five minutes and I'm going to leave with my dignity intact.

As I'm picking up my purse, she says, "Let me know if they irritate you in any way."

"I'm a special little snowflake," I say. Then, for some reason, I become possessed and say in a high squeaky voice, "I get irritated all the time!"

She looks at me, I look at her. I realize I'm now looking like an idiot. I thank her, grab my things and run out as fast as possible.

I have yet decided if this conversation was a win, lose or draw for me.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Mountain, meet molehill

Back when I was pregnant with my daughter (14 years ago), I had this huge fear of needles. Who am I kidding; I still do. I am (and was) deathly afraid of needles. Now I put on my Big Lady Pants and go to the doctor, dutifully hold out my arm and wish them "good luck." Of course, every single person-whose-job-it-is-to-draw-blood swears she is "good" and will get it "first try." And, of course, there's three or four tries, muttering, conferring with other nurses and rolled veins before they tell me to head over to the drop-by blood lab to let those ladies (who never seem to have a sense of humor) jab me with a needle. I'll tell you this: Those no-humor ladies surely can jab. It might take one or two tries of dealing with my rolling veins, but they get it. Anyway, I used to build up blood drawing in my head so much that my husband would take off work to escort me to the doctor to calm me down. I always made it worse by panicking and having swe...

It's All Been Done Before

Fun fact: I have a love of 90s music. I really do. Actually, it goes farther than that; I have very specific Pandora stations I have created over the past 8 or 9 years -- 90s pop, 50s rock, 90s country, 80s...you name it. I have Big Band Stations and Boogie Woogie Stations and Frank Sinatra (both holiday and not) stations to fit every mood I could possibly have. I'm listening to the song "It's All Been Done" by the Barenaked Ladies as I type this. (Second fun fact: If I hear too many of their songs, I have the sudden impulse to watch the American Pie movies.) I knew you before the fall of Rome...I knew you before the west was won... So true for my life today. I don't think most people know, as I typically don't share much of my life with, well, anyone, that I spend the majority of my time writing. I have written two full books since my kids started going to school (after homeschooling) 3 years ago. I actually wrote one book completely twice (and then c...

Black Magic Mirror

I was the queen of short shorts in high school. Honestly, I didn't understand the concept of dress code and short lengths (to your fingertips, ladies!) and how they applied to me. Here's the rule: Your shorts had to be longer than your fingertips, plain and simple. Every single time I wore shorts to school (and every single time I got in trouble for them), I'd exclaim that "I have long arms and short legs! They don't make shorts that long!" It is true; I do have long arms and short legs. It isn't true that they do not make shorts that long. I just didn't want to wear them. Therefore, most of the time I wore jeans to school, though I had plenty of opportunities of sitting in the principal's office or getting sent home for my wardrobe. Every single one of my friends was capable of complying with the code, but not me. I always laugh when I hear the Mase (90s) song where it says, "I'm the reason they made the dress code." I smile ...