Doors are no friends of mine

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By Ginna Young

It’s become increasingly clear to me, that no matter what you do, some people are never going to like you. The same could be said for doors.

Somehow, I always seem to get caught on them as I go in, or out, of buildings. It’s like the doors are trying to get me back for something, but I don’t know why; I’ve never done anything to them!

In fact, I even try to treat doors gently so they last longer, which means not yanking and cranking on the door handles. To keep from annoying people or making them jump, I attempt to softly shut doors, as well.

OK, maybe, maybe I’ve been known, in a fit of temper, to slam them. And kick them. And threaten to yank them off their hinges.

It’s also conceivable, that I have jumped on and off an automatic sensor, just to watch the door open and close without me lifting a finger. Again, it’s also possible I’ve been spotted twirling around in a revolving door, going, “Wee-wee-wee-wee-wee!”

But that’s only once in a great while.

No, doors just have it out for me.

For example, at least once a week, if not more, my shirt, pants or coat pocket gets caught on the door at work. It’s just a given. Usually, I don’t even notice, until I start to move away from the door jam and find I’m fixed in place.

The other day, I got my key lanyard caught on it. It actually pulled me back, since I had them in my hand and was continuing on blissfully unaware.

It’s inevitable I’ll get clothes caught in car doors, as well as the seat belt. However, one time, I ended up with my sweater in the door, unbeknownst to me. Blissfully unaware my blue “tail” was sticking out, I drove all over town, waving to people and wondering why they kept giving me weird looks.

It wasn’t until I stopped and got out, that I realized my mishap. That, and the bottom left side of my sweater was now wet and muddy from the recent rainstorm.

Probably the most “caught” I’ve ever been, wasn’t even from an item of clothing I had on. I was carrying out a basket of clothes from the house to take to the laundromat and trying to reach behind me to shut the door, when I felt resistance.

I tugged, but the basket seemed attached to the screen door. Upon investigation, I had somehow gotten the slats of the basket hung up on the screen door handle. It didn’t matter how I pushed, pulled or twisted, that thing was on there for life.

By that point, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t stand. I’m not sure why I found that funny, since I had decided I was going to have cut the slats to get the basket unhooked.

At the last second, just before I pitched all the clothes back in the house and went looking for strong scissors, the basket came lose and ceased to block the door from closing. I fell against the door jam and the screen door slammed on my elbow.

Like I said, they have it out for me.

I’d love to say automatic doors are different, but, alas, I cannot. In fact, they’re more dangerous and present real problems.

A couple years ago, I encountered one where I obviously encroached on the door’s space, as my sleeve got caught in an automatic opener (not the sliding kind, but the actual opening kind). As I was starting to go into a building, the door opened to the exterior of the building, taking me along with it.

I squealed and was drug along back outside, digging my heels in, to no avail. I finally extricated myself when the door stopped, but not before I had a mini panic attack at the thought of the durn thing closing again...as it would in a few seconds...on me.

I straightened my clothes, gave the door a

look and marched into the building, where a bemused gentleman was watching and had apparently seen the whole thing. I mustered my dignity and said, as haughtily as I could manage, “My sleeve got caught.”

The very unsympathetic man started roaring with laughter, said, “I saw,” hung up his own coat and started to a banquet hall, shaking his head and still guffawing. Red in the face, I took off my coat, muttering about what bullies doors are and followed the amused gentleman to the banquet.

All in all, I’m just glad I don’t live in a tree house like The Swiss Family Robinson, having to first climb up to the rickety door, then somehow get into the tree house. I can only imagine how that would go.

Bet that guy would find that funny, too.