PART 2 - Bury me in the stockings please.

I get up from the bed slowly and do my best impression of Bambi on the ice rink...or a new-born giraffe.  Two tiny nurses run over with sheer terror in their eyes and catch me before I fall flat on my face.  They put me in a lazyboy and tell me to wait for a while before trying to get up again.

This time I manage to
get up and swagger (OK...stagger) over to my nurse who is engaged in conversation with my wife.  I lean on a door jam just in time to stop myself from keeling over face-first again.

"I'm ready to go," I say.

My wife points to a wheel chair and I get in slowly.  While I am still bitter and resentful at my bartender Nathalie for cutting me off, I am appreciative of her pushing me to the waiting car.  I manage to scuffle my way into the passenger seat, I say thanks, and we drive off in the direction of my hotel oasis.

To say that Montreal's streets are bumpy is as understated as saying that George W. Bush was slightly under-qualified for his job.  I have been to third world countries with better infrastructure, but all is redeemed by the city's European flare, exciting vibrancy and it's world class restaurant scene...don't get me started on the restaurant scene!

Inevitably my wonderful wife picked the bumpiest road home.  Every bump, crack and pothole felt like that blasted angry camel kicking me in the gut again.  (What did I ever do to him anyway?)  And just for fun, we ran into a road closure that forced us to circle back half-way before rerouting to the hotel.  Never had I wanted a car ride to be over so badly.  I just wanted to get into the hotel room, strip down to my skivvies and stockings and lay in bed drooling.

Finally we reach the hotel approximately 175 camel-kicks later.  At last...a place to lie and drool is near.  I scuffle carefully out of the car while my wife hands the keys to the valet.  Next to me, two 30-something want-to-be-Mafiosi stare at me with a look of dismay from the windshield of a large black SUV.  I shoot back an unmistakable "what-the-f?%k-are-you-looking-at" glare...then I realize that I am wearing beach shorts and flip-flops with my satiny-white thigh-high stockings on.  Never mind.

I enter the hotel slowly and to my dismay, there are at least 150 people standing in the lobby while the fire alarm is blaring.  Thankfully most of them have their backs to me - they are much more interested in the firemen wielding axes on the other side of the lobby.  Trying not to attract attention to myself and my stockings I shuffle towards a couch tucked away in the back corner of the lobby.  Just before I make it to my safe-haven my wife comes into the lobby yelling "Cheri!  Cheri!"  The entire crowd turns and looks directly at us...  "Cheri - the valet stalled your car and can't start it!" she tells me.

I wince in shame as the crowd looks me up and down..."what's with the stockings" painted all over their faces.  Dread, shame, humiliation work their way over me but then turn into an unequivocal sentiment of "f*ck it..."

I explain to my wife what to tell the valet and she helps me sit on the couch.   For the next 15 minutes while the fire alarm rings I stare at my feet pretending not to notice the dozens of conversations going on about my attire.  Surely someone in the crowd has had some form of surgery requiring these nylons and will clear up this mess.  An eternity passes...

Suddenly the alarm stops and there is a rush for the elevators.  The hotel manager and some security guards try to control the crowd and disperse the people into efficient, equal elevator loads.  I am suddenly taken with a rush of strength and rise to my feet.  I grab my wife's hand and pull her towards the elevators.  "Sweet, sweet linens - I am coming!  I am coming!"

When we enter the elevator I have again forgotten how I am dressed.  The stares of the fellow guests quickly remind my of my courtesan attire.  As the doors close I glance to the front and see nothing less than a Christmas tree of lights on the number board.  This elevator is about to stop on every floor, and I am on 29!  Oh dear lord...

The reflex to vomit at each stop and go of the elevator is unbearable, though I managed to hold it together through my floor.  My wife stares in silence as my face turned all colours humanly possible.  I could see what was going through her mind..."Please don't vomit in the elevator and embarrass me."  Ha!  Too late dear woman!  Have you not seen what I am wearing?

As we make it to the room, I feel a wave of relief, fatigue and release come over me.  The day is finally over.  Tomorrow, on to a new life of restriction, moderation and health...and a few new scars.