A recent How I Met Your Mother episode discussed how every sign had a story behind it.
When I was 16, I became responsible for a rock slides road sign. For anyone unfamiliar with the topography of Birmingham, Alabama, let me assure you that our fair city is quite hilly. Being in the foothills of the Appalachians will do that to you. The Southern half of Alabama is quite flat. Montgomery, Mobile, Gulf Shores – all flat. Birmingham, not so much.
The particular suburb I grew up in is also known for being particularly difficult to drive through. The roads are curvy, there’s lots of greenery and very little lighting. I say all this to explain how a 16-year old, with a month-old driver’s license, would have some trouble with a curvy road at the bottom of the hill on a very rainy day. When the rain washes rocks down, well, that’s how I ended up with the first of what would be many flat tires.
Since I cared for more about my appearance in high school than I do today, I ended up on the side of the road in a downpour while my adorable pleated mini skirt (hello 1995) from the Junior’s Department at Macy’s was pretty much ruined as I stared at a flat tire I had no idea what to do about. I’d been given the lesson on fixing a flat, but I wasn’t really planning on doing it. Luckily, a kind police officer arrived at the scene to help me out, and since I was less than a mile from my house, my mom was also on her way to pick me up. I told the police officer about the rock, and there was a sign up the next day. I’ve been taking credit for it ever since.
Last week, I was in the elevator on a way to doctor’s appointment. I climbed into the elevator with another man. Since I no longer have the standards I had in high school, I was wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt from the SO’s improv comedy troupe.
“So,” the stranger said, “what’s that across your tit … t-shirt?”
I don’t believe I’ve ever had a man ask about my t%$&s. Or even use the word in front of me. I get the Freudian slip, but seriously?
“It’s the logo for my boyfriend’s improv group,” I said. If you’re going to call someone out, I say the time to do it is not when you’re enclosed in a small box known for occasionally getting stuck.
“Improv? Really? What’s it called?”
I told him the name, and then turned around to show him the name since it’s written on the back of the shirt. I’ve found that reading a phrase people aren’t familiar with is easier than dealing with, “What did you say again?” “Ugly what?” and “What does that mean?”
When I turned around, elevator man brushed my ponytail aside to read the shirt. In a word: creepy. Also, if having your body discussed in said small box known for occasionally getting stuck is uncomfortable, you can only imagine how much worse it is to be touched by a stranger in there.
Luckily, the building only has five floors.
When I got to my appointment, I told my doctor the story, thinking it would be funny. Plus, once I was no longer inside the elevator, I thought it was funny. A grown man who can’t stop himself from using the word t&%$s? Really?
My doctor wondered if we needed to put up a sign in the elevator, and I started thinking about what it might say. “Please don’t touch strangers while riding?” “Watch your language in the elevator?” “Questions not related to directions or deliveries not allowed?”
I can handle being responsible for a rock slides sign, but I’m not sure how I’d feel about being the reason behind an elevator sign that read, “No Discussion of t&%$s allowed.”
And on that glorious, and rather inappropriate note, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas and a festive Kwanzaa to all!
