Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Conspiracy Theory
I have many enemies among the world of inanimate objects—stairs, beanie babies, Dan Rather—but revolving doors have recently risen to the level of a full-on nemesis. It all began last summer when, getting off the train with my sunglasses on, I accidentally walked into the same revolving door compartment as the gentleman in front of me. Shocked to be suddenly intimate with a complete stranger in a space too small to hold even a single post-Trimspa Anna Nicole Smith, all I could do was stammer an awkward “I’m sorry, I didn’t INTEND to do that” as my newfound friend weighed the pros and cons of calling the police. I vowed to exit through the turnstyles from then on.
Last week, however, I was leaving the Thompson center after lunch and I saw a young lady struggling to operate a revolving door while carrying several large packages. Never one to allow damsels their distress, I ran to assist her, despite the fact that I had no idea how to do so. Of course, she sensibly concluded that I was trying to assault or kidnap her, and ended up nearly broadsiding me with the door. It was only then that I realized I knew her. At the time, I wasn’t sure if that made things more or less embarrassing, but looking back on the one or two minutes of bad stalker jokes I made in the aftermath, I’m going to have to go with more.
Even that, however, wasn’t the end of it. Immediately after I finished telling a friend these stories the other day, the shoulder strap from my gym bag became caught in one of the spokes of the train station revolving door, causing it to yank me backwards and slap some poor unfortunate gentleman in the face. I tried to pass it all off as part of my enormous gift for physical comedy, but the truth of the matter is clear: revolving doors are plotting against me, and this is one battle I intend to win, or at least avoid.
I have many enemies among the world of inanimate objects—stairs, beanie babies, Dan Rather—but revolving doors have recently risen to the level of a full-on nemesis. It all began last summer when, getting off the train with my sunglasses on, I accidentally walked into the same revolving door compartment as the gentleman in front of me. Shocked to be suddenly intimate with a complete stranger in a space too small to hold even a single post-Trimspa Anna Nicole Smith, all I could do was stammer an awkward “I’m sorry, I didn’t INTEND to do that” as my newfound friend weighed the pros and cons of calling the police. I vowed to exit through the turnstyles from then on.
Last week, however, I was leaving the Thompson center after lunch and I saw a young lady struggling to operate a revolving door while carrying several large packages. Never one to allow damsels their distress, I ran to assist her, despite the fact that I had no idea how to do so. Of course, she sensibly concluded that I was trying to assault or kidnap her, and ended up nearly broadsiding me with the door. It was only then that I realized I knew her. At the time, I wasn’t sure if that made things more or less embarrassing, but looking back on the one or two minutes of bad stalker jokes I made in the aftermath, I’m going to have to go with more.
Even that, however, wasn’t the end of it. Immediately after I finished telling a friend these stories the other day, the shoulder strap from my gym bag became caught in one of the spokes of the train station revolving door, causing it to yank me backwards and slap some poor unfortunate gentleman in the face. I tried to pass it all off as part of my enormous gift for physical comedy, but the truth of the matter is clear: revolving doors are plotting against me, and this is one battle I intend to win, or at least avoid.
