This afternoon, during particularly lovely weather, I decided to walk back from a leisurely lunch with my mother. In recent weeks, I've discovered that eating at my desk really ruins my mood as it relates to my workday, so I'm making a concerted effort to not grab something hastily, then eat it while looking over spreadsheets, inevitably spilling some of whatever it is on my chest. Which is usually what happens.
I found a shady bench outside a nicely landscaped highrise, and plopped down opposite of a rather strange (but mostly benign) looking gentleman. He sort of looked like the 65-year old lovechild of Henry Kissinger and Bea Arthur. All chin, forehead, and nose, ALL hairy. Imagine that for a moment...okay, moving along...
I acknowledged his presence with a polite smile, then pulled out my iPod. I only had a couple minutes - long enough to de-stress and get some sunshine. I put my head back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Thirty seconds into the first song, (It Must be Love, by Madness) I felt the bench sort of...well, shaking a little bit. Right, left, right, left. I not-so-subtly peered over at my compadre to find him filing his toenails.
Yes. Filing his very thick, fungus-laden toenails. Perhaps this is a good time to inform you that he was wearing a suit and bowtie. He wasn't some crazy druggie, or a homeless person. It appeared that he chose his lunch hour to take care of eating and, ahem, other personal tasks. Determined to not let this throw my personal goal of 5-minute Zen relaxation, I switched to something a bit more soothing. (Let it Be Me - Indigo Girls) THAT, my friends, is when the shit hit the fan.
He blew the newly dusted remains of his former toenails off his feet. And onto me. My lap, my hands, my iPod, and my black capri pants (which will be burned later on this evening). So if you don't see very many blog entries this week, you'll know exactly where to find me -- in a scalding hot shower, rubbing my entire body with liquid bleach and steel wool.
And to think - I was bemoaning my lack of blog inspiration just this morning. Be careful what you wish for.
I found a shady bench outside a nicely landscaped highrise, and plopped down opposite of a rather strange (but mostly benign) looking gentleman. He sort of looked like the 65-year old lovechild of Henry Kissinger and Bea Arthur. All chin, forehead, and nose, ALL hairy. Imagine that for a moment...okay, moving along...
I acknowledged his presence with a polite smile, then pulled out my iPod. I only had a couple minutes - long enough to de-stress and get some sunshine. I put my head back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Thirty seconds into the first song, (It Must be Love, by Madness) I felt the bench sort of...well, shaking a little bit. Right, left, right, left. I not-so-subtly peered over at my compadre to find him filing his toenails.
Yes. Filing his very thick, fungus-laden toenails. Perhaps this is a good time to inform you that he was wearing a suit and bowtie. He wasn't some crazy druggie, or a homeless person. It appeared that he chose his lunch hour to take care of eating and, ahem, other personal tasks. Determined to not let this throw my personal goal of 5-minute Zen relaxation, I switched to something a bit more soothing. (Let it Be Me - Indigo Girls) THAT, my friends, is when the shit hit the fan.
He blew the newly dusted remains of his former toenails off his feet. And onto me. My lap, my hands, my iPod, and my black capri pants (which will be burned later on this evening). So if you don't see very many blog entries this week, you'll know exactly where to find me -- in a scalding hot shower, rubbing my entire body with liquid bleach and steel wool.
And to think - I was bemoaning my lack of blog inspiration just this morning. Be careful what you wish for.
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