good help

Ambushed again by my own tears, I must admit to myself the obvious: I am a crier. From poised to can't-speak-fighting-back I go in an instant, equal parts surprised and self-conscious. I am always, always unaware and oblivious until I hear the catch in my voice. Then I'm done for, my internal scales finally measuring the last straw right as they are tipped to the teary.

I'm not sure, entirely, that this propensity is a flaw, but damn if it doesn't derail a good riot act. Hard to continue a rant when one can't choke out the words. Not that I had raised my voice to the not-quite-competent receptionist for whom I suspect I'm now a dinner-time story. But I did perhaps relentlessly endeavor to point out the error in canceling the first of my three back-to-back appointments without telling me and then chiding me for being early. It's an appointment book; I get it. It's not catastrophe. Except when the outcome of a nearly six-month goal seems to be riding on information now unknown for yet another of my few remaining days. Then, for a moment, it feels as if it is.

Welcome to life in a medical office, Miss I'm-new-here-and-I-didn't-think. Next time, I beg you, call!