I like crazy people. I really do. Let me clarify. When I say crazy, what I really mean is fun crazy (i.e. hilarious, eccentric, flamboyant, spontaneous types.) These whack-jobs fascinate me because their brains work in ways that usually produce belly laughs, great outfits (that I could never put together myself), or in the case of one particular nutty friend of mine, brilliant off-Broadway musicals.
This week though, I had to deal with the other white meat: The annoying crazy type. It happened Sunday night. The ordeal started out innocently enough. The whole family worked hard in the yard all day (and when I say whole family, I mean my husband and son. I on the other hand, stayed indoors toiling over the laundry pile that consisted of 2 pairs of socks, one pair of drawers and a wash cloth that I don’t want to talk about.) To reward ourselves, we hauled our cans to the movies to see “Silver Linings Playbook”. I had just read the book, and was anxious to see Bradley Cooper in the lead (He portrays a man who falls into a crazy category all its own; one that every single gal has experienced at least once in real life. The coveted gorgeous nut job. These types are fun for exercise, but after a while, their square jaws and perfect noses can no longer compensate for their random and often scary insanity. Women with any modicum of self respect ultimately toss those fish back into Lake Coo-Coo.)
Getting back to our movie-going experience, we found the last three seats together in the theater. We usually sit on the aisle to accommodate my husband’s oversized appendages (pause for laugh). This time however, there was a lady seated on the aisle, with me next to her. My son and husband sat on my other side. Being a sixteen year old, my boy took full advantage of the entire armrest that we shared.
“Could you give Mom a little space on that thing?”
He obliged by pulling in his elbow all of two inches.
Here’s where the trouble starts. Upon overhearing my request, the lady to my right (from here on I’ll call her “Phlegm”) decided to spread her ham hock of a forearm across the armrest on my other side, and even stuck her elbows out, digging into my ribs. How ironic I thought. Here we were at “Silver Linings Playbook” and I felt as if I were in a straight jacket.
The movie starts and Phlegm decides she’s going to laugh. At. Every. Line. Uh-huh, everything that wasn’t funny was hilarious to her. Now at this point, I’m looking around for another seat, any seat that would have given me a retreat from Phlegm and her infuriating cackle. No such luck. It was packed.
Then it happened.
Phlegm decided to amp up the crazy another notch. In addition to the inappropriate laughter and her side of beef arm jabbing my side, Phlegm started to cough; a wet, hacking cough (Now you’ve put two and two together and realize how I came up with that repulsive moniker, eh?) Phlegm just didn’t cough, and cough loudly, oh no. She refused to cover her mouth or lean away as she barked and barked. I could practically see the mung spores floating toward me, just waiting to get me sick. I tolerated about ten minutes of this before I could no longer hack her hacking. “We’re leaving” I told my clan. As we straddled her massive thighs and canal-boat shoes that she refused to tuck in as we passed, my husband stage whispered “Go see a doctor, lady”. Now, I’m assuming he meant a physician to cure her walking pneumonia, but you and I know what kind of doctor she needs to see. Maybe she already had, but refused to take her meds.
We went home and watched “Argo”. In the comfort of my living room, I had plenty of arm room; there was no laughing, and thank you God, no coughing. I guess there was a silver lining after all. Wait. My throat kind of tickles…