About To Be Dis-Appointed, Part 2

| Learning | July 18, 2017

(One fine spring day during my first semester at a new school, I am headed out several minutes early to a computer programming class when my right ankle rolls under me as I step off a curb. I fall to the pavement, bloody my left knee, scrape my hands, and generally make an unflattering pile on the pavement for which I am grateful no one is around to see my lack of grace. Since I am already halfway to class and the campus health clinic is across the street from the computer science building, I decide to stop in for some first aid, then show up to class a few minutes late with bandaged limbs, a sheepish expression, and a doctor’s note. Hobbling up the clinic steps is an exercise in pain tolerance and patience, as my damaged palms can’t be used to support my weight on the handrail, nor can I hop on one leg since both are wounded. After finally reaching the top of the steps (and seeing that if I’d limped another 50 feet around the corner of the building, I could’ve used the wheelchair ramp), I elbow the accessibility button to open the clinic doors and drag my sorry, road-killed carcass into the lobby.)

Receptionist: “Can I help you?”

Me: “I sure hope so. I twisted my ankle and got a bit banged up falling off a sidewalk, and I need some first aid.”

Receptionist: “Do you have an appointment?”

Me: “No, I just need first aid.”

Receptionist: “You need an appointment.”

Me: “Fine, just give me antiseptic, bandages, and an ice pack and I’ll do it myself!”

Receptionist Repeater: “You have to have an appointment.”

Me: “For an accidental fall?”

Receptionist Robot: “You have to have an appointment.”

Me: “I didn’t exactly PLAN to fall, you know… but, okay, fine:. when’s the next available appointment?”

Receptionist: *ERROR 411 CRITICAL THINKING NOT FOUND* “Hmm… looks like we don’t have any more openings today. Would 12:30 tomorrow afternoon be okay?”

Me: *unprintable expletives*

(Not yet late to class, I make my slow, painful way out the door, down the wheelchair ramp, across the street, up the wheelchair ramp (I can learn from my mistakes!), into the elevator, and through the door of the professor’s thankfully-near-the-elevator office to show him my war wounds so he’ll know I am going to miss that day’s class while I doctor myself up with the first aid kit I had in my room. When I tell him that I’d tried to stop by the campus clinic on my way over, he interrupts my narrative to ask sarcastically:)

Professor: “Did you have an appointment?”

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