TMI

People tell me too much, sometimes. 

I blame the chubby face, the crooked smile, the warm and caring look in my eyes (which is actually just my contact lenses reflecting in the sun, but, whatever...) and the fact that I never seem to be mad.  I'm always smiling.  I blame my mother for my damn sunny outlook on life.  "Holly, you may have one gimpy leg - but so what? Live with it!"  And if that isn't the best advice that a mom can give to her recently diagnosed disease-riddled child - well - I don't know what is! 

So - I get back from lunch yesterday and the phone rings - I answer it by correctly listing all the names on the wall and wait. 

"Hey Holly. It's me." One of the secretaries. "I'm home and not feeling too good."

"Oh - I'm sorry to hear that," is my required response of human compassion.

"Yeah, I'm crampin' real bad and have been sittin' on the pot forever," she continues the tale of her tale, "Yeah, so, as soon as I can get done here doing my thing - I'll be in."

"Okay," I finally manage. "I'll let the office manager know."

Why do people tell me this?  But the saga continues...

Later, in my night class I make a new friend who missed the last class due to "Diarhhea all day long.  I was in the bathroom forever!"  

Really, people, I think it's okay to skip out on a few details.

Until this is learned by the general population, though, I will continue to smile, nod and look sympathetic.

Until my head explodes.