Door Holding Etiquette

I work in an office park, which means there's an awful lot of foot traffic right before 9 and right after 5.  To get to my office, I have to pass through four sets of doors.  There's an unspoken Door-Holding Etiquette that even the most unsophisticated living creature can and should follow:  If someone is immediately behind you, you hold the door for them.

Granted, maybe I'm guilty of being too generous of a door holder.  If I happen to make eye contact as I gander back at the person's distance behind me, I always feel obligated to hold the door.  This inevitably leads to people doing a half walk, half run like they are squeezing their asscheeks to make it to the bathroom before an accident of epic proportion occurs; a slightly awkward and preventable encounter had I just kept walking.

That being said, I cannot tell you how many times the person walking only five feet in front of me has let all four doors slam right in my face.  I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on the first door, but you clearly heard my footsteps RIGHT. BEHIND. YOU. at some point before you reached the next three doors.  Okay, maybe you are deaf.  But you must be able to catch the image of a person in one of the four mirror-like, clear doors you pass through.  I know you're no Helen Keller.  I don't expect much from people, but fruit flies have better manners.  

The door slam happens so often that I overcompensate when people do hold the door. I exaggerate my "Thank you sooooooo much!" and this look of bewilderment comes over my face as if Willy Wonka himself just handed me the keys to the chocolate factory.

I'm generally a patient individual, but I am slowly but surely losing my patience with Door Slammers.  I've devolved from letting it go, to huffing and puffing, and to most recently letting out an irritated "really?!".

I imagine that one day I will be pissed off about a million other disturbances, and the door slam to the face will be the incident that sets me off.  I will sprint up ahead of Asshole to beat him to the next door.  Ideally, said Asshole will be struggling to carry an awkward box overfilled with small objects.  And that is when I will let myself through the door and hold it shut, and as Asshole struggles with his box, I will stare at him with a wild, psychotic smile a la Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Being arrested for false imprisonment won't look too hot on my record, but it will SO be worth it.  Beware Door Slammers, beware.

My GPS Love/Hate

I used to be directionally savvy.

Then came the advent of the GPS.  Suddenly, I rely on that little black box to direct me as if God himself moseyed on down from the Heavens and steered my car for me.

While I was running errands one day, my usual exit ramp off the highway was closed.  I huffed and puffed and felt the instant surge of anxiety rush through my body as if I hadn't lived in this geographic vicinity my entire life.

Ahh! Alas, while sitting in traffic I remembered my trusty rectangular friend resting in his comfy glove compartment confines.  I turned him on, set my destination…

And then this happened…

WHAT?!…what in the shit am I supposed to do now? What does this mean?  Has the robotic voice from Hell turned on me like a cheetah on an unsuspecting gazelle?  I TRUSTED YOU.  I will never know the origins of the expletives that came out of my mouth at that moment.  It was clear to me that I would be forever lost on side streets and never find my way home.  I would live off the land and beg the villagers to take me in after the gnomes in the woods tried to capture me and burn me at the stake and and and…wait.

Once I made a slight right and recognized my surroundings, I calmed down.  As if I had battered my GPS, I began perpetuating the cycle of violence and apologized profusely.  Do I not call enough?  I stopped sending flowers.  I’ll never do it again!  It's not you, it's me. 

Gerry and I (Yes, I've since named him) are now on good terms.  But I give him a suspicious glare every now and then, waiting for him to take his revenge and make me, god forbid, read a map.

Strategic Eating

I'm a firm believer in the idea that all people have a childhood habit they can't let go.  Stepping on a crack and immediately calling your mother to make sure she wasn't writhing on the floor with back pain.  Counting down the days until Christmas.  Running up the basement stairs before whatever creature waiting to grab you by the feet catches up to you.

I've never been adulthood's number one fan. Sure, I can rent a car, spend my money how I choose, stay up until 2am... But there's just something to lounging around in your mismatched pjs and having your dinner magically appear on the table.

The childhood habit that I can't abandon is strategic eating.  I like to eat...a lot. I'm no poster child for an anorexia PSA, but I should weigh at least 100 pounds heavier than I do. I approach eating the way I should, but don't, tackle work.  I survey my plate and rank the portions based on relative deliciousness (See Relative Deliciousness Eating Order Chart).

I then attack the worst of the bunch, getting it over with as if I was forced to drink a bottle of cough syrup.  Take that, dreaded spear of broccoli!  I'll ninja kick you half plate of haddock! When I finally reach the best part of my meal, I study it carefully. I pick away at any abnormalities and target the best bite, savoring it last.

I've done this for as long as I can remember. As an adult, I've always been convinced that noone would ever notice my strategic eating.  Taking a lesson from my college etiquette class, every now and then I sample bites of a different portion of my meal because I, the ever-mature adult, didn't play favorites.   I was as sneaky as a stealth fighter jet over the Iraqi desert.  

One day while halfway through eating a grilled cheese (by far, my favorite lunch meal and further evidence that I can't let go of childhood), my boyfriend piped up.  "What the hell are yooou doing? It seems like you are looking for a good bite."

I've been found out.

Panic-stricken, I thought of everyone who probably noticed my strategic eating.  Did my parents shake their heads apologetically to friends and family?   "I'm sorry about my daughter.  She's generally intelligent, so we let this slight sign of mental imbalance go."  My friends undoubtedly refer to me as Picky Eater Polly, or Can't Eat Like a Normal Human Being Carol.  They keep me around to watch like a circus freak  as I methodically stare at my sandwich.

I feel half embarrassed about my not-so-hidden childish habit.  But coming out of the strategic eating closet aside, I still fucking hate broccoli. 

Welcome!

Fol-ly [fol-ee]  noun
1. the state or quality of being foolish; lack of understanding or sense.
2. a foolish action, practice, idea, etc.; absurdity.
3. a costly and foolish undertaking; unwise investment or expenditure.