These Aren't The Droids You're Looking For
I am gripped by a certain superstitious paranoia (against speaking about certain things) and that is rendering me a blogger with not much to say. So I will treat you to a few odds and ends from my most assuredly odd mind.
1) The Red Menace Approaches
At the beginning of the week, Cait and I went to Dr. Reserved's office, which is in a downtown medical building. The elevators conspired to run on very odd schedules, such that at 9:00 am as the lobby filled up with people, only one elevator arrived. The horde stuffed itself into its confines, and we ascended. About halfway up, I noticed someone gesturing oddly out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look, and discovered an old family friend of my parents'. Strangely, he was motioning shhhhhh! at me. Baffled, I stayed quiet, but kept turning his direction every few seconds. Every time, he made the same gesture. Just as I was about to say something, the elevator stopped at the floor before ours, and my acquaintance started to get off. As he moved away from the back of the elevator, the reason for his strange action became apparent in the form of his floppy-hatted, giant-shirt-shrouded wife whose face looked a bit like she'd been a little too close to the test range for the Manhattan Project.
So what is the etiquette for greeting someone after they've had cosmetic surgery, anyway? (I don't mean for when you bump into them in the elevator on the way to their doctor's for the post-op visit, I mean weeks later, when they look lovely, but, well, altered.) It seems awkward and impolite to say, "Hey, babe, niiiiice facelift!" or "Chemical peel or sandpaper? I'm in the market myself!" but NOT saying anything would seem to invalidate the thousands of dollars poured into the physician's boat.
Inquiring minds want to know.
And now, I'll return to my previously scheduled couch.