Fun times at Crabby Corp

There is no easy or elegant way to replace your torn stockings with new stockings while in a teeny ladies’ room stall at work. I need more room to hop around and tug at the waistband, and a mirror to make sure I haven’t torn the new ones as a result of hopping around and tugging.

It’s particularly uncomfortable when the woman in the stall beside me is audibly crying.

What’s the protocol for such a display? Does one offer comfort to a crying colleague? Pass tissue under the stall? Does one pretend to not notice, or hurry up and leave the bathroom before she does, to leave her in peace?

There are two other women at Crabby Corp that I try to avoid. I’ll call one Eeyore, very quiet and always depressed. I can never hear what she’s trying to tell me, and I’ve learned that I don’t really want to. The second woman is Needy Nora. She’s a time thief, always plopping her sad self down in my office with an announcement of some sort. “Well, my husband and I are separating.” “Well my son has been kicked out of school.” My benign smiling and nodding haven’t worked. She’s chosen me as her therapist. She won’t go away. I want to mention this to her boss, but I feel too guilty.

How do I get rid of them? And what would you do about the crying?

What's it all mean?

Two profoundly unusual things happened to me yesterday. I was very nearly killed by a car that ran a red light. I was crossing the intersection with a group of people. The “man walking” sign was still lit, but this car came sailing towards us. I didn’t see it, because I was fishing around in my purse for lipstick. The two people walking behind me gave me the shove of my life. Literally.

And last night, I dreamed that the Pope visited me. He told me “You are here for a reason.” He asked for a pen and paper, and wrote something down. “What does it say,” I asked Mr. Crabby. “I don’t know, but I’ll bet it’s worth a lot of money.”

I don’t really believe that any of us are “here for a reason.” I think it’s much more random than that. We’re here, period. We try to make things meaningful, we do our part, and some don’t. It is what it is. If I had been reduced to road pizza yesterday, then what’s the point of having been here at all? But some part of my subconscious has told me otherwise. His Holiness told me there is meaning to my existence. Ok, it was a dream, but his message got through, and now I feel pressure to define what that meaning is.

Do I have to invent something, or save some lives, or run for office? Like I have time for that. Isn’t it enough to be a nice person, to be well-though of, and to let those I care about know that they are loved?

I would hope so.