I went downtown yesterday with my friend MS and her mother for a little bit of girl time—namely Anthropologie and a late lunch (which included a vodka martini for the visiting mother—you go girl!). As they arrived at our house to pick me up, I finished filling up Moxy, put on my nasal cannula, and soon we were down the stairs and across the street and in MS's car. We made our way down to Pacific Place to park, got out of the car and closed everything up.
"How much oxygen do you have in that tank?" asked MS, as we started up the ramp to the floor 5 elevators.
"Oh, plenty," I replied. "At the level I'm at, it's almost an indefinite amount. At least 8 hours."
Then I looked down at Moxy. "Actually," I said, "I forgot to turn it on." I twisted the dial. "Obviously, now it's going to last much less indefinitely than before."
Hysterical laughter from MS.
"Clearly, oxygen supplements are not a life-or-death thing for me."