I’ve got conjunctivitis.

The beauty of my eyes is so profound that grown men weep to look upon my face.

And by that I mean that Pal told me last night I could’ve been an extra in The Terminator.

I feel so attractive.

Especially now that both eyes are adorned with a layer of crust crystals.

Due to the fact I have three children, Pal insisted on taking me to the hospital yesterday.

Can I just say that Sunday at a country hospital emergency department is beyond interesting.

It’s almost like a carnival.

In that the people resemble carnies.

At first I tried to be non-judgmental.

But then the teenager with a sore foot decided he needed a wheelchair to navigate the 3X3 metre space.

His father sat across from me.

In his short shorts.

With his legs spread wide.

Let’s just say I didn’t realize one could have so many moles in places that should be hidden from the sun.

Should obviously being the operative word.

In Mole Guy’s defense, he did tell his son to “mind the chick” as he pushed himself around in the wheelchair, and eventually into my legs.

Twice.

“I am being careful”.

Not careful enough.

And when the boy’s mother asked a question of her son as she filled out the multitude of forms, he replied kindly with:

“You’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

And by kindly I mean loudly and scathingly.

Chances are that had I not been called at that point, that teenager would have really needed that wheelchair.

To top off my pleasure at spending my morning at the hospital, I ran into a multitude of people.

My former employers.

Some girls I used to go drinking with.

The really young, really hot doctor.

Who had an instant connection with Pal.

And so the next ten minutes was spent listening to them mock my eyes, my dust mite allergy, my recent flu and my status as a mother of three kids three and under.

Obviously it didn’t occur to them that all these things are all Pal’s fault.

Somehow.