Cow vs. Woman

Today I sat in the waiting room of a doctor's office. Save me, there was only one other being in the room. I was having trouble telling if it was a woman or a cow.

See, it was chewing. With its mouth open, jaw grinding side-to-side, no doubt, enjoying Juicy Fruit or cud. Hard to tell.

Me? I sat all the way across the waiting room growling on the inside and glaring at it across the way. I was trying to read Kiplinger's magazine, which, in and of itself, is no small feat, but my reading was being thwarted by the evil sound of jaws-meeting-springy-substance.

Now, MOST people wouldn't be bothered by a little background noise. Truly, if I listened, there were also the sounds of cars moving outside the window, typing on the computer in the office, and voices talking in the exam rooms. But, my ears are hyper-vigilant and I hear everything. Cripe, if a mouse throws up in another room I'm asking someone "What WAS that?"

I grew up with a person who chewed gum with such intensity that she should have an Olympic medal in mandible manipulation. She, like my cell mate in the waiting area from Hades, used to have NO CLUE she was chewing gum, even though she had clearly unwrapped the piece, placed it in her mouth, and started the process of gnawing on it.

There were times I would say "COW" and, immediately, like a Pavlovian dog, she would realize "OH! I'm chewing gum" and tone it down for a little while. It actually became a little bit of a game between us for awhile there, me trying to catch her, she trying to stay under the ear-dar. Then she up and quit gum. I'm sure Wrigley's executives cried big tears over that decision.

Years later my ears are still hyper-sensitive, and, like firemen hear cries from a burning building, I hear the sound of gum chewing from miles away.

Thankfully, back in the waiting area, I was saved by the nurse who called me to the back for my appointment.

As I was leaving I noticed cow-woman had maintained the same position she took when she originally sat: head cocked to one side, mouth opening and shutting, reading a magazine. She never looked up and she never stopped torturing that gob of stuff.

Which left me wondering: Did she grow up in the proverbial barn I ask my kids if they are being raised in? That would certainly explain all the chewing.

It would not, however, explain why she was waiting for an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist instead of a vet.