I needed to get some blood work done. Nothing newsworthy. Just some routine tests. Typically, whenever I need to see a doctor (which is rarely, knock wood), I go on a Saturday morning because during the week I am preoccupied with trying to pay the mortgage. Today, however, I decided to remote into my desktop and work from home.
The weekday crowd in the doctor’s waiting room is not the same as the weekend crowd. It is similar to a casino crowd, with the M-F patrons being a bit older and slower than the weekenders. I am not accustom to being around sick people. I’m lucky that way. nursemyra and Nurse Heidi deserve to be canonized for helping people through an illness. I award myself the golden shithead award for being so uncomfortable around the old and sick.
Sitting in that waiting room today provided a sobering reminder of my (our) mortality. I was the youngest one in there by a few generations (and I’m not that young, remember). Of course, you would expect to see old, sick people in a medical waiting room but some of these people were visibly fucked up. Most were physically incapacitated and one was clearly having a psychological episode. The whole ordeal had a profound and lasting impact on me. I hope this doesn’t lead to a religious epiphany or anything tacky like that.
When I got home, 2-Year Old Daughter ran across the room and wrapped her arms around my leg. “Daddy home!” Therein lies the antidote for my poisonous thoughts.
You can learn a lot by working from home for a day. I came out of the office at 2:30 to make a cup of tea and you’ll never guess what I came across; Mrs. Wife was having a little snooze. 6-Year Old Daughter was in school and 2-Year Old Daughter was having her afternoon nap. Mrs. Wife was wrapped in a blankee on the living room sofa all roasty-toasty warm. Asleep. At 2:30 in the afternoon. Typically, at that time of day, I am fighting corporate demons. No big deal. I’m just sayin’.
Here’s the best line from Jon Caramanica’s New York Times review of the Celine Dion concert at Madison Square Garden:
“Her outfits were, invariably, sparkly, as if she had just lathered herself in glue and rolled around on crushed mirrors.”