StepAside

First, you'll miscalculate the amount of extra time needed for the stop at the feed store (to pick up 25 pounds of black oil sunflower seed, 15 pounds of niger, and 3 cakes of suet for those hungry little agents that keep you and your cats entertained): it doesn't take as long as you'd calculated, so you show up 20 minutes early for your appointment. Then when you arrive, the receptionist (whose nails are just too long and the wrong shade of red; you congratulate yourself on the restrained length of your own nails and on the perfect shade of red you chose for Christmas week) tells you in a really high voice and a really nasal, whiny Central New York accent that the doctor has been "delayed in surgery." (And when you hear her telling other patients that their doctor, too, had to "go to surgery," you figure a three-martini office lunch is underway.) So you sit down, and pretty soon some random guy sits down next to you, and it immediately becomes powerfully apparent that he has been drinking—for about the past four years. Alcoholics just smell so damn bad, and the reason you're at this ENT's office is in part because of rampaging chemical allergies. But there aren't many seats available in the office, so there aren't any decent options for moving. Then an old guy sits down across from you, a guy who hasn't bought any new clothes since he gained the last thirty pounds, and he gazes searchingly, unblinkingly at you as he taps his tank for extra oxygen. Oh, it's going to be a loooong afternoon. And you do not have High Theory to keep you distracted. And you left your iPod at home, too, so you cannot help but hear every little jiggle that the damned oxygen tank makes.

So you look around to see what's available to read. Prevention. Time (you know, those nice folks who just named W man of the year—no, not "person." Man.) And that's about it. No People or Entertainment to tell you all about what sorts of sleazy antics Russell Crowe is up to these days. You are doomed, doomed, doo--

But wait! Red Claws actually calls your name! "Rebecca"—that's me, right? And you skip off to the examination room and meet your new best friend, who turns out to be a pretty cool guy your own age (not some old fossil or some young thug) who actually talks and listens and gets his nurse to draw blood and makes an appointment in February to talk with you again and tell you what kind of allergies you have and what treatment he can give you for them. And all the reeking alcoholics and overstuffed oxygen-wielding weirdos are forgotten. There is hope! In celebration, you sail off to Wegman's House of Worship, where you blithely drop TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS for freakin groceries, including about 10 gallons of Eucerin, 'cause after all, winter's here and the skin's going to need a lot of replenishment and--

oh, just SHUT UP, Becky!