I Hid in the Vestibule

So I'm at my usual Tuesday night meeting tonight, for the first time since the Big O happened. It was with mixed feelings that I went there tonight, having missed my exciting duties but with the bad taste of Mr. Ick's back-rubbing story still stuck in my mouth. Ewwwwww.

Mr. Ick's wife, Mrs. Ick, showed up this time. Apparently there was some anxiety over Mr. Ick's coming home so late the last two weeks I was there, so Mrs. Ick made sure to tell me, "We have to leave on time tonight. We have a sick boy at home" (I think it was her grandson, but I have a sneaking suspicion she was talking about her dog).

*Let's pause here, so we can all imagine me slapping the crap out of Mrs. Ick*

Excuse me, Mrs. Ick. I'm sorry my husband doesn't pick me up on time (which I have absolutely no control over), but I believe it was your salacious-story-sharing husband, Mr. Ick, who chose to sit around waiting for the Indian in the cupboard to come to life and hack me to death as I waited for my husband to arrive. Never at any point have I uttered the following: "Please, Mr. Ick. I feel so afraid, sitting behind two sets of heavy locked doors that can't be kicked in because they open to the outside. Won't you stay with me, so that I might be protected by your 80-year-old self?" So don't be pulling this "We have to leave on time" crap. If you want to leave, you know where the door is.... you old blowhole.

The Icks and Mrs. Blossomhead were all ready to go by 9:15 (closing time, by the way, is 9:30). As Mr. Crybaby had not yet left his coded phone message - "It's butt-clapping time" - I was forced to wait around with them and listen to Mrs. Ick's whining. "Mrs. Crybaby, are you still here? Did your husband call yet? Mrs. Blossomhead, is Mrs. Crybaby still on the computer? What's going on? Can we leave yet? WHAAAAA??? AAAAAHHHHH??????"

Finally Mr. Crybaby did call. Having worked through our previous difficulties, I was pretty sure I knew what to do - pulling it off without the other meeting-ees finding out would be the hard part.

I hung up, hurriedly shoved everything into my bag, said "BYE!" and ran out the door. Our meeting room is connected to a long, straight hallway, so I would have to run like mad. Once they all hauled their monstrous keisters out of their chairs, commented on my not-that-grateful-for-their-protection attitude, said "good night" 18 times and shuffled out the door, I was in danger of being discovered.

And I ran - I ran so far away - to the gym where the Tuesday Night Volleyball Chicks were whooping it up as usual. On an earlier fact-finding mission, I had been annoyed and a bit panicked to find they were in the farthest-away gym from my meeting room, instead of the closer gym they had played in on previous weeks. They all looked surprised as I now ripped open their door, trounced into the gym and took off walking to the opposite hallway as fast as I could.

Finding myself in a foyer on the opposite side of the building, I sat down on a couch, then worried I might still be discovered. What if they saw me head into the gym, followed me, asked the TNVCs "Which way did she go?", and were, even as we speak, hot on my heels? So I stood up... and hid in the vestibule. Seriously. I hid from them like a naughty child and stood there in the dark corner thinking, "What if they find me? What will they say? What will I tell them? I can't believe I'm doing this." I thought I saw the Icks' car go by and thought, OK, the coast must be clear.

I went back the way I came, through the TNVC's gym. "Do you want to play volleyball?" one lady asked me. I signed up on their email reminder list. I chatted them up for a few minutes and tried to assure them numerous times that no matter how much they said, "Oh, you CAN'T suck at volleyball, you're just saying that" - it's really true, and they'll be sorry someday that they ever asked me to play with them.

I glanced out the door into the hallway - the scene of the crime - and sighed with relief that everyone was apparently gone. The meeting room door was locked and no one was hovering. For once.

Then I sprinted down the hall, let myself back in, locked myself behind two sets of doors, sat myself down and dashed off this post.... and finally Mr. Crybaby made his appearance.

I now have volleyball as a legitimate excuse to stick around if he's late again. But I'm also contemplating quitting this Tuesday night thing altogether. Sneaking around and hiding from well-meaning adults used to mean everything to me. I enjoyed it - who wouldn't?

But when I turned 37, it suddenly lost its charm.