musingsonwomenshealth.com

Have you ever been trapped in a drive-through lane at MacDonalds? Would you ever even admit it if you had? I mean some things, like sweat stains on the collar of your favourite tee shirt, or the rip in the crotch-seam at the back of your sweatpants which a friend points out as you stand in a lineup for coffee, pale in comparison, don’t they? 

It started off innocently enough, and I have nobody to blame but my bladder. It happened in Timaru in the middle of the long trip I’d decided to drive in one go between Dunedin and Christchurch. On the map it seemed doable, but I’d forgotten about the one variable that seemed to have changed from the year before: just as on a long trip, one has to be mindful of any children who are complaining in the back seat, so too, are the fretful whimperings of a bladder in the front seat, albeit at the other end of Life’s journey.

At any rate, without resorting to any unnecessary crudities which, to any but another old man, might seem in bad taste, somewhere around Timaru, I was peremptorily summoned to right the wrong. To do so, however, involved the desecration of one of society’s most sacred shibboleths: the parking lot was full, and the only available space was in an area clearly marked for those with disabilities.

Given the conditions and constraints under which I was labouring, I felt I had earned the privilege in some small way. Of course, after exiting the washroom, the parking lot was still buzzing with cars coming in and attempting to escape into long lines leading to the highway; I decided to deal with those problems after I had solved another of my own with an ice cream cone. You look at things differently when the once still small voice is finally quiet don’t you?

But one can only eat chocolate covered soft ice cream for so long before wanderlust beckons again. I needed to escape to the highway, but, if anything, the lineup to get out of the lot, let alone onto the highway, seemed intolerable. Cars were lined up on the highway in the direction of Christchurch as well and I wondered if there was an accident further up road.

It was hot just sitting in a stationary car in a MacDonalds disabled zone even in Timaru, and I sat back in frustration; nothing was moving from the parking lot, but I did notice a thin line of cars disappearing around the back of the building. I figured they must be locals who know the backroads, so on a whim I decided to join them.

I snuck in behind a car as it was turning slowly out of sight. A horn honked behind me and an irate teenager poked his head out of the driver’s window and shook his fist at me. But the deed was done. Even this lane was a stop-and-start affair, but at least it was moving, slowly and sluggishly.

As soon as I reached the corner, though, I could see the hold up: a large digital screen on which you could order food. I had completed my task, however, and I felt no need to order anything more, so I said nothing. After a minute, or so, an irate voice yelled out from a hidden speaker and asked me what I wanted to order. I was holding up the line of cars behind mine, it explained.

She must have been new at the job, though, because she couldn’t seem to accept that I would actually line up with no hope of reward. I tried to explain my situation to her, but she apparently owed allegiance to the woman at the next window who was supposed to hand me the bag of things which I, in turn, was supposed to have ordered.

“I’m new to the area and I got in the wrong line, eh? I was trying to get back on the highway, but the line of cars…” I could hear a click and her worried voice disappeared, only to be replaced a few seconds later by an older, more aggressive voice. “You could at least have ordered a coffee, or a sugar-free coke, don’t you think? You’ve really confused my employee…”

“On the contrary,” I replied, annoyed at her tone of voice. “I have given her priceless training in coping and solving unusual situations. It will be a valuable tool for her to take with her into the future, don’t you think?” I suppose that resorting to an italic ‘you’, was beyond the Pale, though -even in Timaru…

“Don’t be rude, sir. We do not tolerate rudeness under any circumstances…”

Now free of the nagging urological chattering, I had time to smile at her hidden threat, and something deep within me that shall not be named, formed the propitiatory words that I spoke in flawless Canadian at the hidden loudspeaker: “I’m sorry you are having a bad day, ma’am, but so would I have been had I not found this MacDonalds when I did.” And then, in an attempt to bond with her, I added, “An old man and his faltering equipment thanks you…”

I left her to puzzle that one out; I only hope her employee had also learned something about Age being an imperfect vessel, however.