Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Diary of a Wimpy Woman

January 21, 2014

Dear Diary,
I can't believe that I sat through a whole movie clenching the arms of my seat pulling myself forward to allow Mr. Wiggles more leg room.  Ugh.  The stupid movie theatre at the mall has NO LEG ROOM.  

I considered moving to another seat.  Here are the considerations of a Wimpy Woman:
  1. If I look behind me to see if there are 2 seats together that also have 2 empty seats behind them, Mr. Wiggles might mistake my squinting for a dirty look.  Maybe if I smiled sweetly and open my eyes really wide while looking past him...
  2. Oh, well.  The theatre is really full, so I doubt there are any seats up there that fill the bill.
  3. Even if I find 2 seats together and we pick up all our stuff to move, Mr. Wiggles might get his feelings hurt because his wiggling caused me to get a bit carsick.  Or, he might think that he is repugnant to our sensitivities.  I can't bear the thought of making a stranger feel repugnant!
  4. Just pull forward as far as I can and try to ignore the staccato jiggles of his knees!  I can do this!  Only 1:45 left of the movie!
  5. Besides, remember that guy that got shot in the theatre for using his cell phone during the movie?!  Moving seats in a dark theatre would be way more distracting.  Extreme distraction coupled with implied repugnance is a recipe for disaster.
So, Dear Diary, I sat there with my bottom scooted towards the front of my seat and my legs spread wide with one foot dangling over each side of my seat in order to spread my weight to keep the seat from automatically leaning so far back.  This position coupled with the clenching of the armrests helped.  A bit.  Alas, Mr. Wiggles thought that I was providing him even more room in which to wiggle.  Sigh.  There I sat muscles clenched breathing slowly in and out to ward off nausea.

Why do I do it?  Why won't I speak up for myself?  

Why.  Am.  I.  Such.  A.  Wimp.

I smile through gritted teeth when a waitress asks me how my mediocre food "is tasting."  "Oh, fine," I say, "and, if it won't be too much trouble, could you refill my tea when you head back this way?  I really wanted unsweet tea, and the glass of sweet tea you first gave me was fine.  But, this time could you please grab the pitcher of unsweet tea?"  A steak has to be gushing blood from an artery for me to speak up to the waiter.  I secretly fear that offended chefs spit on food that has to be "fixed."

I leave 20% tips for bad service because I don't want to hurt the bad waiter's feelings.  The time that we had horrible service - horrible - in a restaurant in Park City, I got sweaty palms as Alan wrote a scathing note on the ticket.  He left not one penny of gratuity.  As soon as he put the pen down, I jumped out of my chair and hurried to the door.  I didn't even put on my coat until I was standing in the snow.  When Alan casually sauntered out of the restaurant, I spat out a desperate whisper, "Run! Run!"  I took off running.  He sauntered.

I have bought clothes that I didn't like because the salesgirl proclaimed them to be The Most Flattering of All the Clothes in the World.  I have then tried to figure out the exact day of the week she might have the day off or time of day that she might possibly be at lunch so that I won't see her disappointed face when I make the return.  My  #1 backup plan: tell her that my husband simply loathed the flattering clothing.  "I loved the giant brown lace top that made me look like a linebacker, but my husband...  What can you do?"  

Just the other day a dear friend told me about an unsatisfactory experience she had during a massage.  Out of the one hour service she paid for, only about 37 minutes were spent on the actual massage.  When the girl announced that the massage had ended, my friend actually looked her in the eye and said, "Are you kidding?!"  "Yes, ma'am, that's the way we do it at Massage-A-Rama (not real name of spa)."  My heroic friend then proceeded to the front desk and let the powers-that-be know how very disappointed she was with the treatment she received.  Boom!  No charge!  Oh, how I wish I could be more like Linda the Lioness!

Thank you so much for listening, Dear Diary.  Your little lock broke years ago, but that's OK because the little key kept bending in odd angles.  Seriously, it's no problem at all.  I'm a freakin' genius when it comes to sealing my secrets with duct tape.


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