Two Glass Doors

Two glass doors. One opened to the right, the other to the left. I came upon their centerline, the edge where both doors met, and pushed against the two simultaneously when just opening one would have sufficed to get my body out of the bookstore. Two heavy steel and glass doors resisted my body but I pressed with all my might and succeeded and I passed through the threshold.

And had there been three? I could have used my two arms and my right leg as levers as poles as battering rams to open three doors, hopping my weight against their hinges on the strength of my quivering left thigh. I would have tried if there had been three because I enjoy difficulty. But I would have failed and then I would have given up, turned around, convinced that there was no way out of Barnes and Noble. That I’d be stuck sniffing paperbacks that were too hard for me to read. After all, if you can’t open three doors simultaneously, how can you manage Jane Austen’s golden classics? I wouldn’t even be worth the price of a cappuccino then. No one would want to have sex with me—the three-door let-down. I would have cried, feeling sorry for myself, oblivious to the fact that someone was holding open one of the doors.

High expectations lead to bottomless stupidity.