Olives

I was never the child with fingers splayed, the tips topped with ten black olives borrowed from a Thanksgiving relish tray. The idea of putting olives on my fingers nauseated me. I left it to my siblings and cousins to play with the cursed fruit as appetizer turned holiday-doldrum diversion. Bacon-flavored cheese squeezed out of a tube and onto a cracker eaten in front of the TV? More my style.

I don’t like olives. They are horribly bitter little tongue-thrashers. The smell of nail polish remover is how an olive tastes to me.

I’ve wondered if my automatic recoil at the taste is a protective mechanism. Maybe I have an allergy or a senstivity. I don’t plan to find out.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about bitterness and how easy it takes root when dreams die or we are thwarted. Sometimes I feel it circling me, regarding me, wondering about me. Should bitterness bother?

Today, I had my post-op follow up appointment with my doctor. I didn’t want to go, so for the past three weeks I kept forgetting to make my appointment. Oops, another day gone. Oops, another. Oops, the weekend. Oops. Yesterday, I realized I needed to put it behind me, so I called. I was hoping the receptionist would tell me I’d have to wait a few weeks. But there was an opening this afternoon, would I like it? I guess. I hung up the phone. I didn’t want to go. I was full of dread. But I didn’t know why.

Then I remembered. There would be olives.

I found my first olive when I saw the building. I put it on my left pinky finger.

I saw my second olive when I stepped out onto the fourth floor. I put it on my right pinky.

My next olive was the ridiculously long hallway, past the kids’ dentist, down, down, down. Last door on the right, add an olive.

I signed in, so now my ring finger on my left hand had a little black cap.

When I looked around the waiting room, I noticed I was by myself. I realized I could take an olive off, so I did with much relief.

But there, on the table, was a “Pregnancy” magazine. The background was a vibrant shade of purple and the blooming, glowing model was wearing off-white. She was happy. Normally, I would have picked it up. The olive, back on. Pre-stretched to fit.

By the time my appointment was over, nearly all my fingers were covered. Except one.

On the elevator ride on the way down, I rode with a pregnant woman. She looked like she was about 7 months. Black shirt. My set was suddenly complete.

It’s hard to type with these olives on my fingers.