In the elevator

At the hospital, it's quite a trek from the patient rooms to the food court.
So far, in fact that it feels like I've entered another zip code just for a meal.

Naturally, only a great meal would motivate me to walk that far.
And that meal is Chic Fil-A.

After the journey past the nurses stations, down the elevators, through the corridors, on the walkways and into the basement, I found it, purchased yummy goodness and made my way back again. This time I ended up in the elevator with a man and a boy.

The boy was a little dramatic. Once inside the elevator, he knelt down on the floor and grabbed the bar.
"I'm holding on for dear life!" he said.
I said nothing and pressed the button for the seventh floor.
The man made a quiet comment to the boy and then looked over at me. The boy continued to cling to the bar.
"Do you work here?" the man asked.

"No," I said.
But in my head, I was all like, Really? Are you serious? I'm wearing jean capris and flip flops. Oh wait... it must be my pink t-shirt that made you think I work here. Yeah, that makes all the difference.
Clearly, he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.

In retrospect however, I'm thinking I looked like a very tired nurse with a messy ponytail, no make-up and what Marie would call my 'bitch-face.'

"Well, what's on the seventh floor?" the man said.
"My husband," I replied.
"Oh no!" he said. "Is he gonna be okay?"
"He's great," I said.

When I got back to the room, I told Chris what had happened.
He laughed so hard, he almost spewed his drink. When he finished laughing, he said, "Here's what you should have told him: 'Yeah, he's doing great. He's getting out tomorrow. He killed the man who shot him... with his BARE HANDS.'"

"Chris," I said, with a sigh. "We're on the heart floor. He probably thinks you're in your 80s."

All of this because the nurses won't bring me any of that delicious hospital food.