I stink at word association games.
You know the kind: Name the first thing that pops into your head when I say...
Pancakes or Waffles:...Pancakes
Chocolate or Vanilla:.....(Duh) Chocolate (Vanilla is only good if it is either mixed with chocolate or drowned in chocolate)
Oh. Oh. Wait. Wrong answer. What was I thinking? The correct answer is....Waffles with chocolate. See. I stink at this.
Many years ago, I worked at a place where people were really into music. Really into music. Like, form your own band, name your firstborn Slash, stalk BonJovi into music.
And so, on my first day there, one of the guys wandered by and asked: What kind of music do you like?
My answer: Rock? Nope. Too cool for me. Jazz? Uh uh. Way too normal. Easy Listening? (Sigh) I couldn't even come up with that. Nope. I said....Show tunes.
Show tunes. I still can't believe I said Show tunes.
Oh. My. God. I was the new kid in school who showed up wearing taped glasses and pigtails and asking where the Dungeons and Dragons club met. Show tunes. I should have just quit right then and there and gone back home to my Mr. Wizard set.
Of course, the guy who asked handled it really well. He looked at me as though I had just announced that I enjoyed ritualistic killings, visiting graveyards every full moon, and sucking people's souls out through their eyeballs.
And then he ran like a jackrabbit at a convention of hunting dogs.
"But I actually like all kinds of music," I called lamely after him as he bolted from the room.
Show tunes.
And it happened again recently.
I went to the doctor to have him check on my foot to make sure the break was healing as it should.
"Looks good," he told me, viewing the x-rays.
"So, I can get back to doing my normal activities?" I asked.
He looked at me for a minute as though he was afraid that by normal activities, I meant base jumping and breakdancing.
Seriously doc. Look at me. Do I seem like I'm just dying to get out there and challenge Venus Williams to a death match?
"Hmm.What one thing do you most want to do?" he finally asked.
"Wear sneakers," I blurted out.
WEAR SNEAKERS?????
I looked behind me to see what idiot had given that answer. Sneakers.
How about, oh, I don't know.....go for a walk? wear shoes? heels? Go barefoot. Even that would have been a better answer. Sneakers. Aside from my twice weekly torture sessions at the hands of my sadistic trainer, I wear sneakers, um, like, NEVER! Sneakers. I could sense my favorite black pumps back at home weeping at the bitter betrayal.
"I'm sorry, my darlings," I mentally apologized, 'You know I love you best. I didn't mean it."
"Oh," he breathed out, relieved I hadn't said "salsa dancing", "of course you can wear sneakers."
No, no! Wait! I take it back! I didn't mean it! That was not my final answer!
As he stood up to leave, I practically broke my other foot leaping off the table.
"I meant, wear normal shoes," I gasped out.
"Yes, sneakers," he reiterated, as he breezed out of the room.
Sneakers.
I only hope the next time I blurt out whatever comes to mind, someone is not asking what I want for dessert. With my history, I'm liable to say, "Spinach".
