I had three errands to run yesterday. Each one, in its own unique way, turned to crap. Be warned; this is one big long bile-filled rant. Feel free to skip over it if you’re having a good day.
First, the doctor. I went in for my regularly scheduled [discussion of “women’s business” removed for sensitive readers], which went well, and afterwards I’m sitting there while the doctor finishes writing on my chart. He says, “Anything new over the last few months?” I’ve been waiting for this moment. Proudly I say, “I’ve lost 10 kilos!” He’s happy. He asks how I did it. Slight hesitation: “Well, I sorta cut down on carbohydrates…” And he goes off on me. Starts telling me how Atkins and all the rest are full of shit. As Atkin recommends, I calmly and rationally refute all of his arguments. He says it’s because I’m exercising more. I tell him I’ve been doing to the gym with the same frequency since January, and it’s only since I’ve been doing Atkins that I’ve had any results. He says if I wasn’t losing weight, why didn’t I see a dietician. “Because I saw YOU”, I reminded him (mentally adding the word “dickhead”). He tells me my cholesterol will go up; I tell him that in most cases it goes down, and say that I’m willing to have my blood tested to prove it. “Have you READ the book?” I ask. “I’ve read ALL the books!” he huffs. Yeah, right. I point out to him the hypocrisy in denouncing something that he hasn’t done any research on. That, of course, doesn’t stop him from proclaiming, “It’s just… IMPOSSIBLE.” Yeah, like I just misplaced twenty pounds? This pleasant scene ends with him admonishing me to not “overdo” anything, and just take everything in “moderation”. In other words, he advocates the traditional starve-yourself-out-of-sheer-willpower approach. I walked out of there seeing red. Dude, it’s not like I’m doing the frickin’ Weekly World News Blue Dot All Fruit Juice diet. He pissed me off. I’m gonna find a new doctor.
So then it was on to the bank. Banking here confuses me. I’ve got all these new PINs and secret phone passwords and registration numbers and stuff, and I can’t keep any of them straight. I’ve only had the damn account for a week and I’ve already forgotten my Internet banking password. So I go to the local branch to reset it. There’s only one information desk, and a little old man is currently being served. I figure he’s probably just cashing a pension check or something. NO, he’s actually, like, planning his entire retirement. Right there at the walk-up counter. I listen as he invests in stock, sets up term deposits, inquires about mutual funds. I swear I watched him hand the teller a check for $600,000. Twenty minutes later I give up and head on to errand #3…
…the library. This wasn’t so bad. I pick up my reserved book (Lemony Snicket’s The Reptile Room) and grab a few others. I head to the counter. And there she is, the Ill-Tempered Dwarf. The problem is that the check-out counter is really wide, and I always set down my stuff sorta in the middle (you know, as you normally would). But the dwarf has to strain to reach it. So then it’s like, do I push them closer so she doesn’t have to reach so far? Or will that draw attention to the fact that I’m four feet taller than her? If I don’t, will that further cement my place as “Giant Asshole” in her head? It’s rather stressful. I tend to just look down, mutter my thanks, and flee.
So back to the bank. Old man is still going strong. He finally finishes up and I get to the counter. “I need to reset my Internet banking password, please.” She tells me I have to call Customer Service to do that (despite the fact that Rodd was allowed to do it at the branch). Gritting my teeth, I ask if she can at least link up my two accounts (personal and business) so I can get some money from the ATM. “Sure,” she says, “what’s your secret personal password?” I tell her. It’s wrong. I throw out about fifteen other guesses, from my mother’s maiden name to books I read in college. Apparently one of them was right (or else she took pity on me) because she pulls my info up on the computer. Oh, sorry, she can’t do that. I’m not the prime signa-what’s-it on the account, so I can’t have the money. I can only get at it if I drag the man of the house along with me. WHATEVER. WHATEVER. WHATEVER.
Whew. I feel better now.