Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Short-Timer's Syndrome
by venitha
Jim and I are clearly suffering from Short-Timer's Syndrome. The symptoms: irritability, the sense that time is passing e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y, and a venomous hatred for all things Singapore. I know you read this and wonder how I detect a difference from my normal state of mind here, but trust me, this is far worse.
Every day for a week now one of us - or the other of us - or both of us - suggests it. "Let's just go to the airport right now. Get on a plane. Leave all this behind." Who wants it? Who needs it? Who cares? We just want out.
Away from the heat. Away from the piles of things to be packed. Away from the customs forms. Away from the elaborate dance required to close accounts.
"And just exactly what information will my husband provide that I cannot?" I ask in exasperation when the drone on the phone refuses to cancel our credit card. Nothing, of course, but this is Singapore, and rules are rules. His Majesty Jim, aka The Man, must call himself. I toy with the idea of calling back with a deeper voice, maybe even with a slow southern drawl. Mornin', little lady. But I decide that the zillion buttons that would be pushed, both the phone's and mine, before I'm again allowed the pleasure of speaking to an actual person would too likely result in the phone's abrupt transformation into killer litter.
I add cancel credit card to Jim's list, and I IM him at work:
Meet you at the airport in 20 minutes?
venitha
Every day for a week now one of us - or the other of us - or both of us - suggests it. "Let's just go to the airport right now. Get on a plane. Leave all this behind." Who wants it? Who needs it? Who cares? We just want out.
Away from the heat. Away from the piles of things to be packed. Away from the customs forms. Away from the elaborate dance required to close accounts.
"And just exactly what information will my husband provide that I cannot?" I ask in exasperation when the drone on the phone refuses to cancel our credit card. Nothing, of course, but this is Singapore, and rules are rules. His Majesty Jim, aka The Man, must call himself. I toy with the idea of calling back with a deeper voice, maybe even with a slow southern drawl. Mornin', little lady. But I decide that the zillion buttons that would be pushed, both the phone's and mine, before I'm again allowed the pleasure of speaking to an actual person would too likely result in the phone's abrupt transformation into killer litter.
I add cancel credit card to Jim's list, and I IM him at work:
Meet you at the airport in 20 minutes?
venitha
