Today, instead of coffee and cupcakes, my date with Blake turned into yet another trip to the clinic and a few more stitches (this time, in his thumb).
But, one of the more memorable parts of the visit involved a certain P.I.B. (that's [Park] City talk for "person in black," a.k.a. painfully annoying invader from L.A., no thanks to Sundance) talking loudly on her cell phone about the friend she was accompanying.
"I guess they said she has a pelvic infection due to an STD. She is moaning in pain, pooping and peeing and puking, too. They said it is going to be $800, and she doesn't have it, so we can't leave."
I couldn't decide if she didn't realize how terribly uncomfortable everyone else in the waiting room was during her tale, or if she just didn't care. I don't know which is worse. Thankfully, a health care assistant ushered her back into the confines of the billing room, sparing us from any further fearful details.
But, it made me sad, on many accounts. On the fore of my mind, especially as I prepare to write a paper on Obama's proposed health care amendments, is how awful it was that a grown adult, capable of getting herself into this trouble (and, P.I.D. is definitely that), was funding Park City playtime but had no means by which to pay for this predicament.
Then, I felt for this femme whose so-called friend was airing her business to anyone unfortunate enough to be seated in the anteroom. I would hope that someone you'd trust to travel with would care enough about you to maintain some dignity on your behalf.
But I really sunk when I thought about how little privacy there is "these days." You can't breathe in this town without your co-worker's neighbor's mom's ice cream man knowing. What happened to good, ol' secrets? To a bit of mystery? What would the world look like if we chose to file away dishonoring details and smile, laugh, trust, and offer redemption rather than gossip? An interesting idea to ponder...
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