On a Personal Note: The Uncomfort Zone

There are many times, as a police officers, that we have to face some uncomfortable situations.

There are many times, as a police officers, that we have to face some uncomfortable situations and, regardless of one’s fears of the unknown, you just go. This weekend I faced that “uncomfort” zone when I agreed to walk into the dark bottomless pit of the Creative Stitch and Crafting Alive fair at the Calgary Corral Centre with my wife Bev. As I stood at the gates of gloom and glanced in, I observed no one of my species (husband), and made such comment to Bev.  The lady at the door corrected me, however, and said there were a few.  With that encouragement, I stepped in. I stuck to Bev like glue and for the duration of 2 hours, 38 minutes and 18 seconds I counted maybe sixhusbands. I learned from  listening intently that  all these women, including Bev, speak Klingon language. No idea what they were talking about. Some of these sewing machines and other gadgets actually have speeds. The only thing I could relate to — horsepower.  At one point I went to the bathroom and instructed Bev to stay put so I could immediately re-attach. She moved. Lone male standing alone with the fear of being abandoned. I forgot what she was wearing so looked for a full head of gray hair — wrong landmark.  Once re-connection was made. I sat quietly while Bev was  getting instructions on a machine she wished to purchase. Four other ladies quickly gathered around. I’m sitting minding my own business as one of the women stared down at me long enough that I felt I should engage her in conversation. I did. “I’m here because I am working on getting permission for my retirement boat.”  A look of acceptance is returned. Close call. I see something for Christmas and for the second time in two hours, 38 minutes and 18 seconds, I break free to purchase a bag. When I do have the item and try to go unnoticed searching for Bev, a sales girl comments, “Nice purse.” Her tone was to make a little fun of me. I also shot back two words: “Smart ass.”  I heard some women screaming and yelling in some corner and figure the male dancer must have arrived.  Where I come yearly to visit the boat of my dreams now stands displays of scrapbooking. The desecration of hallowed grounds. I made a commitment to myself that I would be back in February to get my mind straight.  Bev walked out with a sewing machine. One day I  will walk out with the boat.

 

 

 

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