Today I was surrounded by abnormally tall men. They sprouted around me like a human forest and I, in my usual fashion, interacted awkwardly with my surroundings. Such interaction included, but was not limited to, witty statements of “wow….you’re tall” upon introduction and practical usage of such Trees; i.e. - asking “Can you please get that for me on the top shelf? There does not seem to be one of those little step-stools around here that they usually have. Or they used to have. I wonder why they don’t have those anymore. They just assume everyone can grab what they need off of that damn top shelf.” at the bookstore to strangers. Normally I would not be so bold but the last time this occurred and, lacking any step-stool or employee to assist me after a search of six to eight minutes, I took it upon myself to use the first two shelves as a makeshift ladder. It’s amazing the type of customer service you can receive after making decisions others deem inappropriate in an attempt to get you to stop whatever it is you’re doing. I’ve found that grabbing other objects from a lower shelf and tossing them at whatever it is you’re wanting that is on the higher shelf in an effort to make it fall down towards you also yields the same result.

And by the by, why is it that the book or whatever it is that you want is always on the top shelf?

At work we have sleeves of styrofoam cups kept in the house manager/nursing station and they are inevitably stored on a very high shelf. Further feeding the inevitable, any client in need of a cup always waits until I happen to be walking by and no other person is able to assist them with their cup needs. Unavoidably, I end up having to hope against hope that whomever last grabbed the sleeve of cups placed them on the very edge of the shelf to where if I stand on tip-toe, I may be able to grab on to the plastic sleeve and pull down the cups. Sometimes this is not the case and I have to grab a chart or a pen and try extend my reach to push the sleeve of cups over the edge of the shelf and into my waiting hands. In any normal facility, a heroin addict with severe cottonmouth would probably have full access to any amount of styrofoam cups he wanted, but in a state-funded non-profit facility who is nearing the end of the fiscal year and has absolutely no money left, he gets only one. One cup a day, with his name and date written on it on Sharpie. This is under the assumption I can reach the cups that particular morning, that is. I tried putting them underneath the nurses’ computer station, but they always make their way back to that damn shelf.

This has been bothering me for a good month or so.

I meant to go to bed at a reasonable hour. It’s already 1 AM. I have no idea how time passes sometimes.