Unexpected side effects

I recently picked up my new inhaler from the pharmacy. Before the tech handed over the box with the inhaler inside, she shoved a clipboard and pen toward me. “Sign here, please,” she said.

“Why? Is this a controlled substance or something?”

“No, it's a waiver in case you throw out your back from lifting the box.”

The box containing my new inhaler was quite large. Inside, however, the actual medication took up perhaps 1/32 of the space. The rest was occupied by the written instructions, which unfolded large enough to contain a map of the universe, except with no color and tinier writing. I assumed this was due to the same words being given in 17 or so languages, and the English part would be a half page or so.

But no. The ENTIRE thing was in English.

The instructions outlined the use of the medication, various side effects and warnings, the chemical makeup of the drug, details of its clinical trials, the amount of donuts and cups of coffee consumed by scientists during these trials, the number of European vacations earned by company executives owing to anticipated sales of the drug, etc.

There was a final warning that “This instruction booklet does not constitute the entirety of known knowledge on this drug. Patients should speak with their health care provider or pharmacist for more details. Although really, why would you want to?”

I imagined a discussion with my health care provider wherein I inquired for more details on this medication. “I think the insert covers pretty much everything,” she would say, consulting her list of “further details.” “Oh, there is one more thing it didn't mention: ’You may die while taking this medication.’”

The instructions in the box were right. I don't want to know more. On the upside, I think I'm starting to get some stronger muscles from folding and unfolding them.

The apportionment of cake

Some time ago a discussion arose among friends, as it often does, about food. Specifically, cake. A theory, which we shall refer to as the Theory of Cake Calories, was put forth and much debated. This theory centers on the idea that the eating of cake* involves a finite number of calories, and that whether one consumes these calories in small, well-reasoned amounts, or in overzealous proportions, is simply a matter of distribution.

Let's illustrate with an example, which may be theoretical. Or not.

One individual explained that she sometimes--only sometimes--finds herself, after consuming a reasonable portion of cake, or brownie, or whatever sweet happens to present itself, slicing off jusssst a bit more of it. She reasoned that she was likely to consume more of this treat later in the day--the first portion often being part of her breakfast--so why not have that portion of calories now? It would be fresher, and who knew if it would even be there later in the day? She felt a duty to protect her rightful share of calories from her husband, who, upon seeing unclaimed sweets sitting around, might take it upon himself to rid the kitchen of them.

Many of us supported our sister in this course of action. One person, however, did not think her strategy went far enough. “Well, in a year I'm going to consume this much cake”--here he traced an enormous, imaginary cake with his hands--”so why not eat it all now?”

This discussion had a definite impression on the Hero. Later that week, after we enjoyed a white cake with buttercream frosting for my birthday, he said, “I think we should eat tomorrow’s cake today.”

I looked at the enormous amount of two-layer cake still to be consumed and said, “We should definitely eat at least tonight’s cake today. And tomorrow’s cake tonight, and...”

__________

*Happily, according to Mathematical Rule 3.14159, the theory can also be extended to other foods of caloric generosity.

The Princess and the parking garage

On a recent trip to the City of Brotherly Love (Hays, Kansas*), I had occasion to solidify the stereotypical view of tourists as well meaning but essentially inane. (When opportunity knocks…)

On my way to a work conference I had to navigate narrow streets in an unfamiliar city and locate a parking garage within walking distance of the convention center, and I had managed to do this with perfect ease, as if I spent every day making sure I was turning the right way down one-way streets and careening out of the way of crazed taxi-cab drivers.

But soon enough it came time to find my way back to the car, get out of the garage, and drive back to where I was staying out of the city. Somewhere between the time I left my car in the morning and returned to it later that afternoon, the car moved. It was not where I left it. At least, not on the level where I was sure I had left it. In the spot where it should have been, according to my razor-sharp spatial memory, was the garage exit. One needs one’s car to exit the garage, so clearly my car was not on this level.

Brilliantly deducing that my car must have somehow moved one level up, I started to backtrack to the stairs. This movement caught the attention of the security guard, who was in a lull between helping drivers make their way through the exit, and he called me over to see why I appeared to be vacillating between level 1a and level 2a. He asked to see my parking ticket. I guessed this was so he could see where I was parked and help me get there by saying, “SEE, IT SAYS 2E, YOU’RE PARKED IN 2E” in a loud voice, with upward hand gestures, to compensate for my fragility of mind.

This request to see my parking ticket prompted immediate evasive maneuvers on the part of the ticket in my purse, and it took me some moments to locate it. The guard was patient, but clearly already thinking about calling for backup, or perhaps considering skipping that step all together and calling the nearest mental facility directly to report an escaped patient. He even asked my name—this favored the reporting directly option—and told me his, probably to put me at ease in case I was suspicious of people who ask my name.

Finally, the ticket located and inspected by the guard, and making no move as of yet for his phone or walked talkie, he directed me up the ramp—so I could be hit by a car?—to the next level.

When I returned, in my car, I hoped fervently that the guard would have miraculously disappeared, but no miracle was forthcoming. I nodded to him, got in line, and just about when it was my turn to pay, the parking ticket, bent on mischief and feeling grumpy at having been thwarted by its earlier attempts to elude my grasp, now slipped from my hand and disappeared into the abyss between the seat and the console.

Now, had I been driving the Hero’s car, this charade would have ended right there, and the guard would have had no further reason to suspect me of any deficiency in mental functioning. In the Hero’s car, objects that fall into this abyss are easily retrieved by the driver. My car, for reasons known only to its creators, mysteriously allows passage down this crevasse for objects the size of Miami, but not a human hand.

I knew from experience that the only hope to coax the ticket to return was to get out of the car, crawl in the back seat, stuff myself under the driver's seat, and beg. But I would not do this while still in the pay lane. I have some dignity. So I pulled into the only spot at hand, marked Parking Garage Superintendent Only, hoped fervently that the esteemed parking garage superintendent did not work on weekends, and crawled in the back seat to commence my begging for the parking ticket to reveal itself.

I am sure that the guard, at this point, figured he had no choice but to call me in to somebody. “Yeah, Michael here. This driver can't find her car, then claims her ticket ‘disappeared.’ Says her name is ‘Holly’—sounds kind of suspicious, ya know? Can I get some backup here? All we need is another wacko driving the city streets.”

But once the ticket was safely handed over to the man ensconced in the ticket booth, this wacko did make it onto the streets. Had I known that my trials to that point were only the beginning of a long and tortuous journey home—the GPS insisted I go this way to the expressway but this way was closed because of construction, and it simply could not conceive of another way to get me onto the expressway, and I was forced to rely on my own wits to find another route, and it was well past dinnertime before my wits succeeded—I may not have minded had the parking garage officials caught up with me and taken me to a nice, warm place. Maybe they would have even offered me milk and chocolate chip cookies.

______

* Not really.