Makin’ Me Crazy

Sometimes here at the Profound Bartender…we try to have a little sense of humor in our writing once in a while, so we might stretch the story just a wee bit here and there..

Ever have one of those days when you start the day so out of it that you pop into the shower, bodywash your hair and shampoo your body?  When you brush your teeth with sunscreen and wash your face with mousse?

One Friday night I accept a call from a friend asking me to facilitate a strategic planning retreat for her group the next morning.  She is desperate. The person supposed to do it, couldn’t. I spend until the wee hours preparing, wake up at 5:30 the next morning and pop into the shower – dead to the world.

As I roll out of the house I realize I hadn’t printed my handouts.  I run back in and – wouldn’t you know it – the printer is out of ink.  I am frantic, but find an ink cartridge and stick it in.  It doesn’t work.  I am desperate so I force it until I hear a little “crack”.

It was a cartridge for another printer.

So now I’m on the freeway, running late.  And fall in behind one of those drivers who goes slow in the left-hand lane.  10 cars – maybe 200, a million – are following him.

There are four things that make me crazy, and remind me that there are still uncivilized people living in this world.

One, people who drive slow in the left-hand lane.  The left-hand lane is for people who want to drive fast!  I think plopping themselves there just gives some folks a sense of power, a joy in keeping others waiting. “I am going the speed limit”, they self-righteously convince themselves.

So what.

I’m late.

(Just FYI, for me going 1-4 miles above the speed limit is screaming fast….)

Two, people who SPEED UP when you put your blinker on.  They want to cut you out, cut you off, to cut you to the quick.  The secret to civilized highway driving is to use your signals and to let people in.  People who speed up when you want to change lanes should be put into cages with their in-laws. Or forced to take a six-hour car rides with two, make it three – no make that four – kids and no electronic device pacifiers. Or made to binge watch The Bachelor.  That should do it.

Three, people who don’t wash their hands in the bath room.  If you want to walk around your own homes with unsanitized hands that’s your prerogative – you can sleep in your own litter box – but don’t walk out of a public restroom without washing your hands!  It’s impolite. Gauche. Bad manners.  Gross! Why would I want to shake hands with you?  Why would I want to touch anything – like doors, door handles, door stops – that you’ve touched? Ugh. Just ugh.

Four, people who wipe their noses on their shirt sleeves.  As a habit. Some people even rub or blot or sweep their dripping snouts over their coats, which they presumably wear time after time. What are you thinking?  Carry Kleenex! (Ok, Ok, I understand it’s better to use your arm when you sneeze than open range.  Not the same imperative buddy.  Still…tissues on hand – that’s the ticket.)

Anyone have some little thing that just irritates you?

So I eventually arrive, late, rush in, and meet my friend, who gives me one of those – “Why in the world did I ask you?” – looks.

“Why?” I think.  I haven’t even started yet. OK, OK, I’m three minutes late. But I’m doing you the favor.

I open the session. No one cracks a smile at my first joke. Some give me the, “Who’s this guy?” eye.

No one responds to the first exercise – they just won’t participate. That’s it. I call for a break to recoup.

This is disaster.

I go into the bathroom.

Washing my hands (good boy…), I glance at the mirror and realize I had forgotten to wash the soap off my face in my rush to leave the house that morning.  And the ink from the broken printer cartridge had apparently dripped on my hands, and I must have then rubbed my eyes.

I look like a raccoon.

This is not much of an exaggeration. No wonder my face feels like cracks in the Hoover dam.

My dark-eyed, white-soap-caked visage fills the mirror like an extra on a bad zombie movie.

More accurate.

No wonder the retreat is a bust. The group must think I am one bubble off plumb. No wonder my friend gave me that strange, hello Mr. Walking-Dead look. Ahhhh yes.

To top it off, the fella next to me skips washing his hands. Walks right out the door. I hope he contracts an appropriate bout of dysentery.  I curse him with an endless nightmare, where hour after hour he is trying to change lanes to make an exit. But no one will let him in.

I rejoin the group, give them my best smile, and realize I’d forgotten to zip my pants.

Days like that just make me crazy.