I had to see a dermatologist recently (you should probably start worrying now, don’t waste a moment thinking that I could possibly be anything but in Mortal Danger!) because I had a blemish on my nose and Papa recommended that I see his doctor and after I made an appointment, I realized that I had no idea where in Queens the office is or how to get there.
“Don’t worry,” Papa told me. “Take the subway to Continental Avenue and I’ll pick you up and drive you to the doctor’s office.”
“Thank you,” I told him, taking care to be extra polite in case I’m about to Meet My Maker and the whole “honor thy parent” wasn’t tongue in cheek. “How long is the ride from Continental Avenue to the office?”
“Ten minutes,” Papa tells me. Which is his response to the time it takes to travel between any two places. Auschwitz to Mars? Ten minutes.
“My appointment’s at 2:30, so I’ll meet you at 2:15?”
“Let’s meet at 1:30,” he told me.
“Why 1:30?” I asked, hoping for a “delicious lunch, of course!” answer.
But I’m not so lucky.
“Because things take time,” he said. And then explained that his initial response was taking the best possible circumstances and most favorable conditions into account. It did not take into account things like subway delay, traffic and Godzilla stomping on the cars of Queens.
We finally settled on 2 and everything went fine.
Well, I’m still waiting for the biopsy results. The biopsy results from the skin on MY NOSE.
So until further notice, no “no skin off my nose” comments.
One year ago ...
- One at a Time - 2010