The other day I got into an elevator that a couple of my co-workers were already on. They were chatting and I desperately wanted to avoid getting involved in their conversation which had to do with the cost of taking one’s cat to the spa.
“I mean, it’s a hundred and …” Here, I must admit I don’t know if she said “a hundred and five” or “a hundred and forty-five” as my brain shut down to protect itself from having to process the absurdity of spending over a hundred dollars for the CAT spa. I myself, a human, only rarely go to the spa – and usually when Ingrid scores a Groupon for it.
So, I tried to keep my eyes trained on the little television above the doors that rotates headlines (K-9 discharges gun!). Nevertheless, I could feel the one woman looking at me, waiting for a response.
“Wow, that’s crazy,” I went with, my standard response to essentially everything everybody at work says.
“Well,” my co-worker retorted, “You obviously don’t have a cat.”
I just stood there, I assume, slack-jawed.
“It’s an angora,” she said. Oops, hadn’t realized we were talking about her cat here.
“Okay, that’s fine, my cat has short hair,” I offered, realizing that when I crossed the threshold into the elevator I had entered some sort of bizarro world where I was the insane person.
Mercifully, we reached our destination, GROUND, and I skittered away as she called after me, “Even so, it probably needs to go to the spa.”