At work, I sit near a very prim woman in her 50’s. She hardly ever wears slacks, and I don’t think I have ever seen her wear blue jeans. Her outfits are always beyond coordinated, like June Cleaver, and she never eats sugary things. While she snacks on her baby carrots, she looks at me as if I’m the devil because I’m eating some cookies.
Sometimes when my migraines are bad, I get these very painful yawns. It’s hard to describe them, but when I yawn, it is very intense, and the pain shoots up through the top my head. I would have to say 99.9 percent of the time I cover my mouth when I yawn, but the other day one slipped out sans hand.
“If I had ever yawned like that with my mouth uncovered, my mother would have slapped me silly,” she harshly chastised me.
I froze. I was so shocked by how she said it, like a stern nun with a ruler in a catholic school, ready to crack you on the hand. Glancing over at her appalled expression, I realized I didn’t even want to share with her how my migraines give me these painful yawns and how one had accidentally slipped out.
What I really wanted to say was “Calm down, Mrs. Cleaver. It’s not as if I farted or belched or swore like a drunken sailor.”
Then I yawned again. This time, I automatically covered my mouth like a good little girl, and June Cleaver looked happy, as if she had made her point. Darn it.