Here's How I Lost my Faith in Humanity

The Time: Friday night, 11:00.

The Place: Side door entrance to the Hilton Garden Inn. Layton, UT.

Photo from here.

The People: Me, loaded up with beach bags full of towels and sunscreen. Poor Kyle, holding a box of leftover pizza from Boston's. Sister, carrying everything nobody else could hold. Brother-in-Law, burdened with his fat little baby boy [who happened to be sleeping soundly under the warmth of a fuzzy green blanket].

There's no way around it--he's a fatty. And we love him.

The four of us [plus sleeping fat baby] were exhausted from our day at the water park--lazy river or not, it still takes a lot out of a person. We were sunburned and sore from our high-energy day, and parked as close to the hotel entrance as possible--which wasn't very close at all. Luckily, there was a side door entrance a bit nearer which, experience had taught, was also closer to the elevators. We walked as quickly as our aching bodies would allow, and soon reached the glass door at the side of the hotel.

Locked.

To go around front would have taken only a few minutes, but it seemed an impossible feat for any one of us--we must have looked a haggard lot.

Instead, I noticed through the glass walls of the building a man and woman coming our way, no doubt headed to the nearby elevators.

"Ooh, there are some people! Get their attention!" I urged my husband, who stood closest to the door.

He and Flint, my brother-in-law holding the fat baby boy, inched towards the windowed door and knocked ever so lightly, winning the attention of the fast-approaching couple.

The man inside--we'll call him Comb Over--was in his 30s, wearing a white polo shirt with khakis and penny loafers, and looking back, I'm pretty sure his comb over was hiding a bald patch on his shiny head. Which would have been fine with me {I, myself, am losing hair at an alarming rate}, had he not glanced our way, snarled, and flung his hand behind him, vaguely indicating we ought to go around to the front. When he could have pushed the bar-locked door open with nothing but an outstretched arm. He wouldn't have even needed to take an extra step. It could have been a walk-by opening.

He probably figured he'd get to the elevator while we trekked to the front entrance, and be in his warm cozy bed before we even got through the doors. He probably figured he'd never see us again.

Comb Over and Woman probably didn't count on the elevators being slow on account of some corporate something-or-other congestion. He probably didn't count on another, kinder gentleman opening the door for us just seconds later, letting us in right behind him. He probably never thought we'd get to the elevator while he was still standing there.

But we did.

And my sister and I married very large men. Who are wonderful except when angry. And our husbands were nothing if not angry with this jerk. (I, myself, have never had so strong an urge to label someone a jack@$$ in my life.) Mind you, Flint is a police officer who is two hundred and something pounds of sheer weight. And okay, he was holding a fat sleeping baby, which might have made him slightly less intimidating, but he still had the huevos to walk up to the guy and say, "Hey, buddy--thanks for opening the door for the sleeping baby."

To which Poor Kyle piped in, "Yeah, thanks a lot!"

Comb Over Polo Shirt said curtly, "You guys could have gone around to the front just like I did." As if he was so disillusioned with his lot in life of having to walk around, that he wanted to make every other human being suffer. Suffer like he had to suffer. Woe was him, I tell you what.

Just then, the elevator doors opened and the four of us whisked past Comb Over to claim it. Don't worry--there was plenty of room for the four of us and Comb Over plus Woman...only they weren't too keen on sharing with the likes of us.

I wonder if they were too insecure? Or maybe just too ashamed to face up to their actions...

Either way, if Comb Over ever comes across this blog at some point in his life--and he knows who he is--I just want to tell him this:

I hope you've come to terms with your baldness.