You’re walking. Just walking, right down the street on the right side of the sidewalk because you’re a practical individual. You think for a moment that it might be a really prime idea to get some food, and you head for the nearest eatery of your choice. You watch as someone pulls the door of the restaurant open, about one hundred yards in front of you. He glances back as he strides through the door and sees you approaching, and he pauses - he is holding the door for you, even though you’re much too far away and this door-holding seems more cruel and unusual than polite. You quicken your pace ever-so-slightly; your bag slides off your shoulder and your scarf comes unwrapped from your neck. You struggle to walk even faster as you fix these mild wardrobe malfunctions, and you see the person holding the door standing there nice and still, like he has all the time in the world. For some reason, though, even though that other person is the one who decided to hold the door for you (it isn’t as though you requested that the door be held open - he elected to do so out of the goodness of his own heart!), you are convinced that you are somehow inconveniencing him and you desperately walk as fast as you can without running, trying so hard to reach the door in a timely fashion so that both you and door-holder can get some food. Door-holder flashes a small grin at you and makes a head motion that suggests it’s okay, you don’t need to hurry, I’m just fine right here and I’m doing this for you. Somehow, this does not calm you down at all; instead, you are spurred on even faster by his reassuring expression, and you try to return his small smile but it turns out looking more like a grimace. Finally, finally, you reach the door and graciously thank the door-holder in a breathy, hasty tone. After your hundred-yard speed-walk, your hair is unkempt and your clothes are all crooked and your face is slightly pink, and you really need a drink of water, and as you sit at a table and scan the menu you have to wonder why anyone would do such a thing to another human. You, of course, brought this upon yourself - you didn’t really need to hurry or get flustered, it was his choice to hold the door. But you can’t help but wonder if the door-holding came at the impetus of the door-holder’s hypothetical tendency toward schadenfreude. Certainly he may have just been trying to be polite and make things a little easier on you, but he may also have been cackling madly inside his head as he watched your approach. This happens to me far more often than I’d like to admit, and it never gets any less uncomfortable. 

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