Sitting in the waiting room at the chiropractor's office this morning, a man about my age sits down next to me and says, "You ever have the shingles?" My first thought was the $20,000 we spent last year to have a new roof put on our house, but while I was dismissing that thought, the guy pulls up his shirt, and pointing to the far side of his ample belly, says, "See? Right here. Shingles!" I practically had to sit on his lap to see what he was pointing at, but sure enough, he had a nasty rash going on.
I should mention that I am currently in South Carolina where everyone talks to everyone about everything, unlike what I'm accustomed to in the U.P., where no one talks to anyone about anything. So a stranger insisting that you check out his hairy, rashy belly would not be weird if you were from here, but I'm not, so I was startled if not downright freaked out.
"I have a mild case," the guy says, "but sometimes I get an outbreak that likes to put me down for a good while." OK, so he's going to keep talking. I asked him if the chiropractor is treating him for shingles. No, he's just there waiting for his wife. I hope she hurries.
After he told me all about his shingles, he moved on to infections he's had from swamp water, different snakes he's killed, every fish he ever caught, and why he hates paying taxes. Then one of my little granddaughters showed me her My Little Pony and while I was inwardly thanking her for interrupting shingles guy, he launches into a whole dissertation on the many horses he has "broke" in his day.
Finally his wife comes out and he gets up to leave. But first he stops at the front desk and asks, the receptionist, "You ever have the shingles?"
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