Years ago I saw a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge on either its birthday or maybe the day of a marathon. Don’t know. Can’t remember.
What I do remember is that I was overcome with a touch of claustrophobia. Just sitting there holding the magazine. The photo was majestic and magnificent, but I felt like I was the tiny person in the center of the bridge. Needing help possibly. Panicking maybe.
Today I was waiting for my primary care doctor to enter the not-too-big-not-too-small room for my physical. I waited a while longer than I wanted, but I was holding in there because he is a wonderful doctor and we seem to be on the same wavelength in regards to my health. Besides, I’m not a quitter.
Then, all of a sudden – possibly at minute 27 of the waiting – I needed to get out of the little room. Or at least open the door a wee bit and listen to the hall noise more clearly. The sound of my own increasing heart rate was deafening and not really all that interesting.
So I did just that. I popped the hatch.
I may not be able to control my self-diagnosed “spasmodic claustrophobia” but that crack in the door did more than let in new air. It released my mind.
And the sweet man even knocked before he entered. Dang. I can pick ’em.
p.s. This is not the photo from my memory. But it is darn close.
p.p.s I’ve never been to California. The Golden Gate Bridge must be a sight to behold.
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I have the same thing happen on occasion. I think it comes from just wanting contact with the outside world. Or maybe I don’t like listening to my own thoughts all that much!