Leave It Alone

Last weekend, I watched Footloose for the first time ever.  I'm not much of a dancer, but happy-crappy 80's movies are generally okay - and I ended up enjoying it more than I thought I would.  Afterward, my Lady Friend and I were talking about that crappy 80's movie staple, the montage.  You know, that 3 minute bit where they play some happy-crappy music and protagonist A teaches protagonist B some essential skill - Kevin Bacon, Chris Penn, and dancing, in the case of Footloose.  LF lamented the fact that you never see a montage where someone learns how to spay a cat.

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At 6pm, I usually head out the door of our 11th floor office and take the stairs down to the seventh floor of the parking garage where I normally park.  I save myself the extra time of elevatoring down to the lobby, then back up again to the seventh floor of our somewhat oddly designed building.  Plus, I con myself into thinking those extra steps are good exercise for someone who drives a desk.

This time, I stopped short, my hand on the doorknob.  On the other side, I could hear footsteps, and didn't want to throw the door open.  At best, I'd scare the shit out of them - at worst, it would hit the person.  Then I noticed the faint but unmistakable sound of a woman's voice - singing to herself.

In a second, I realized that even if I waited a couple seconds for her to pass the door, I might not scare her, but she'd likely still notice me and stop singing.  I listened a moment longer, then turned and walked to the elevator.