First, let me set the scene. I am sitting in the corner, as far away from potentially contagious sick people as possible, minding my own business whilst reading David Sedaris. 1980s hit "The Politics of Dancing" by Re-Flex is playing at a mid-range volume from the overhead speakers.
Very elderly lady #1 sitting to my left, talking very loudly to VEL#2 sitting right next to her: Is it a rash?
VEL #2 (SHOUTING): YES, BUT AT LEAST I DON'T GET IT, YOU KNOW, DOWN THERE IN MY PRIVATES ANYMORE.
VEL #1 (ALSO SHOUTING): YES, AND SOMETIMES IT ITCHES! I CAN'T STAND WHEN IT ITCHES DOWN THERE.
My inner monlogue: Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates...Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates...Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates...Please stop yelling about personal discomfort in your privates
Angry Man to my right (mercifully interrupting the private itch conversation): This is ridiculous.
Rest of room:
Angry Man (standing up from his uncomfortable attempt to recline in a waiting room chair, trying to stage a coup): They should at least give us recliners to sit on, as much as we pay for health care. (begins shaking fist)
My inner monologue: Quick, think...is Candid Camera still on the air?
Then the nurse came out and called Angry Man's name, which I believe was Anderson, so that show was over. Then the two VEL's decided to take a stroll over to the optometry department, so I was once again left alone with my book, wondering if I would remember when I got home to write something about this bizarre experience.
Well, I remembered, and now you, reader, are the one paying the price. Sorry.
