It struck me, as I walked across the lobby with the “memory curator” that the gentleman who drove up in the Ferrari with his plastic girlfriend pays large sums of money to avoid people like me.
But today I am incognito.
I am masquerading in expensive clothes and expensive shoes and expensive lingerie and expensive hair….
Maybe they can still tell?
Can they detect that I feel ill at ease? My movements are choppy and I have a nervous giggle. Am I talking too much with my hands again? Or maybe it was the two kids’ worth of grime in the back seat of the Honda that gave me away. The valet was muttering something into his headset as I walked away.
Either way. I am a doctor. Why should any of this matter, anyway? Haven’t I already proven myself? Doesn’t holding the weight of someone’s heart in your hands give you some sort of magical pass? Where was I when that was given out?!?!?!
At least once I close the door to my corner room I can pretend to be somebody. There is no one else to remind me that I am not.
Then I see it: Caffeine.
I drink a cup of tea and then another cup of coffee.
I do not want to sleep through the Ritz-Carlton. Oh, no. This must be savored like the fine sparkling wine sitting in the ice bucket by the huge window. The fine wine that I cannot have. Not yet at least.
By morning, though, as I am sitting down to a massive room service breakfast dressed only in a bed sheet, I realize that I have it figured out. Sure, I have burned enough calories that I do not have to pay attention to what I am eating but that is not it.
The secret is this: The little bottle of ketchup on the linen covered roll away table? It says “Heinz”.