Stupid Tuesday questions, Rachel Hunter edition
I do not recall how the conversation started. Knowing me, a random bit of static on the surface of my brain was as likely the cause as anything tangible or perceptible to a neutral observer. I have no idea why I was talking about the subject in question. [More on that later.]
Specifically, I was talking about how much I don’t like him. It turns out, I don’t like him much at all. I don’t like his singing. I don’t care for his songs, with a few exceptions. (I like “Maggie May” a lot, actually.) And I really don’t care for his public persona.
And for God only knows what reason, I decided to hold forth on the subject of my dislike for Rod Stewart.
The setting for my soliloquy was the nursery at the hospital where I was working at the time. I was quite new at the job. I believe the other person present to hear my thoughts was meeting me for the first time. She was a nurse.
After I got done pontificating about my dislike for Mr. Stewart as a performer, it occurred to me to ask the nurse I’d just met who she really liked to listen to.
She really liked Rod Stewart. As I came to learn over time, he is perhaps her favorite performer.
[As I was composing this post in my head last night, a horrifying but all too likely possibility occurred to me. It is quite possible that the reason the subject of Rod Stewart and my dislike of him popped into my head was because some kind of music-playing device was playing his music when I started talking about him. In which case someone quite possibly had chosen to play his music. Which, of course, would have made my decision to yammer on about how much I don’t like him even more striking in its idiocy.]
By the time I left that particular job, the nurse and I were on very friendly terms. She is a lovely person, and we got along quite well. But for some time after that benighted first meeting, there was a distinct frostiness in her interactions with me.
So that’s this week’s Question — when have you ever performed a dental procedure on yourself with your own foot? Out with it, people. Confession is good for the soul. The more appallingly dunderheaded, the better.