Being Mistaken for the Mouse Surgeon....

I was enjoying a fine dining experience with the wife, Little Debbie Sneezeclumper & Phlange-a-slam when this man walks up to our table. I recognized him from my place of employment-- he had worked there about seven years ago and I hadn't seen him since. He comes over and shakes my hand, all full of smiles and warmth and I'm thinking two things: "what's his name what's his name what's his name?" and "boy, he sure is happy to see me." I can't exactly introduce him to my table mates as I can't recall his name. ("It starts with an E! Emilio? Enrique? Damn, being sporty five is hard!") He is yipping and yapping and he's talking about someone living on Chicago (or did he say in Chicago?). I'm smiling and nodding but I don't really know what he's talking about. I give him a quizzical look, he gives me one back and I'm talking about being from Chicago and he's talking about living on Chicago and then he says to never mind. (Huh. What just happened here? Buttever.) So, we talk small talk, he talks about his injuries and he's going on and on like I'm his long lost friend. All I want is for him to once again shake my hand again and slowly amble back to his table.

Then, it hits me.

He thinks I'm THE MOUSE SURGEON!

If you don't know who the mouse surgeon is, you'll have to go back in blog-dom and read the entry because if you don't read it, it won't make much sense why I would not want to be mistaken for being the mouse surgeon. Let me tell you, being mistaken for being the mouse surgeon is NOT a compliment in my book. (Check out the link below to update yourself on the mouse surgeon) http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/02/mouse-heart-transplant-surgery-ive.html

Anyhoo, there I am, not the mouse surgeon but being mistaken for her. Ah, I guess we all look the same, eh? Short hair, men's shoes.....

Now the problem is I can't tell him that I'm not her and I can't tell my friends who he is and this is getting rather uncomfortable. I want to scream, "I AM NOT THE MOUSE SURGEON! I DO NOT THINK I CAN DO MOUSE SURGERY! I ACTUALLY WORK FOR A LIVING!" Instead, I sit quietly and smile appropriately and almost do an audible cheer when he does in fact shake my hand and amble slowly to his table.

I think by the time he got back to his table he remembered who I actually was and that I wasn't the mouse surgeon at all....but it was too late.....and, I remembered his name, but it was too late for that, too. There was nothing else to be done but enjoy the food and take a mental note to get some therapy in the next week over the trauma of this mistaken identity.....

On a different note, I injured myself at work today. Really. I am having sharp pains in my chest--but, I'm talking about my pecs (well, where my pecs would be if I had them). As I am a counselor, you might be asking yourself, "how the hell did you hurt your chest muscles being a counselor?" Well, I shall tell you. I was doing a 15 minute work out with a client (trying to motivator her to lose like 200 pounds) in the early morning and we were only doing "Basic Bootcamp" but Billy Bob or Billy Boot or Billy whoever was having us jump up and down and cursing through push-ups. My problem: while I am a VERY sporty-five, I am indeed FORTY FIVE and 45 year olds should not just suddenly try to do 20 push-ups just because some man on the DVD tells them to do so. I got to 15 and I felt (heard?) the shredding of some poor, unsuspecting muscle. I haven't felt the same since. It really kind of sucks that a 350 lb girl can bounce around and not get hurt but I do some push-ups and basically rip a muscle in two.

Sporty five, indeed!

Do you know how much your pecs are involved in every day life? I didn't. Now, I realize that they are involved from breathing to taking your pants off to pee. This is going to be a long recovery process. Stick shift? Yeow. Carrying laptop? Ouch. Putting on sports bra so I can be extra sporty? Eye-poking-pain.

My only hope? Maybe it will swell and it will finally look like I have a chest.....