Let's Call It the End of Summer
5:00 pm on Labor Day, 2007. I spent the day bizarrely cleaning my house. By bizarre I mean fanatically: tackling first the scary tangle of wires, surge protectors and routers under my desk. And the gazillion dust mice and miscellaneous detritus caught up in it. I found: 3 unused telephone wires (one connected from the wall to... nowhere. Hello? Can you hear me now?); one unused power supply (connected from the wall to... nowhere); three ethernet cables and about $400 in quarters and Italian lira. Go figure.
I tried to figure out why I spent half of my last day of vacation doing this. A little self-analysis can go a long way and I finally connected to a conversation with C. over the weekend. We had talked about where to live, if we are "going forward," and California came up. I honestly think my cleaning was a way to dip a toe in the water of (gulp) moving from my little hovel after so many years. Sure - Cali. No problem. Of course, the circumstances under which this could be possible would include C. moving there first and finding a highly affordable 2-bedroom in a cool SF or Santa Monica community (the two places in CA where I've got the public transportation down pat.
Speaking of death (oops, I wasn't, but cleaning out from under my desk made me feel like I was "getting my affairs in order," as they say, plus I'm reading Christopher Moore's hilarous A Dirty Job, all about the humorous side of death). It made me think of the three times (that I know of!) I was close to death: the spider bite and 105 degree temperature in Paris last year; up on the suspension cables of the Brooklyn Bridge in the early 90s; and when I slipped under the front wheels of a white van on a steep hill in a strangely snowy San Francisco when I lived there. Dodging death seems to be one of my strengths, and maybe it's because I've never really dealt with it except for poor MeMe (my first personal cat, RIP) who died right in front of me a few months ago. 4.5 grandparents and nary a funeral for me, though they're all gone now. I wasn't purposely avoiding their funerals, just happened to always be too far way. One memorial service this summer but that was outside, in the sunlight, surrounded by my born-again relatives -- and that's it. I wonder what they call it when a born-again calls it quits on the whole religion thing: died-again? Hm. Must research.
Anyway, back from the gym (day 5!) and still sweating in 82 degree humidity, end of summer notwithstanding. I've embraced the gym wholeheartedly (another way of cheating death?) and have lost 4 pounds already. Not working for more than 10 days definitely agrees with me. I'm pretty sure I've completely forgotten how. Which may work out well when I'm fired for general laziness and have no reason not to move to California. Or Kentucky. Or Paris.
I tried to figure out why I spent half of my last day of vacation doing this. A little self-analysis can go a long way and I finally connected to a conversation with C. over the weekend. We had talked about where to live, if we are "going forward," and California came up. I honestly think my cleaning was a way to dip a toe in the water of (gulp) moving from my little hovel after so many years. Sure - Cali. No problem. Of course, the circumstances under which this could be possible would include C. moving there first and finding a highly affordable 2-bedroom in a cool SF or Santa Monica community (the two places in CA where I've got the public transportation down pat.
Speaking of death (oops, I wasn't, but cleaning out from under my desk made me feel like I was "getting my affairs in order," as they say, plus I'm reading Christopher Moore's hilarous A Dirty Job, all about the humorous side of death). It made me think of the three times (that I know of!) I was close to death: the spider bite and 105 degree temperature in Paris last year; up on the suspension cables of the Brooklyn Bridge in the early 90s; and when I slipped under the front wheels of a white van on a steep hill in a strangely snowy San Francisco when I lived there. Dodging death seems to be one of my strengths, and maybe it's because I've never really dealt with it except for poor MeMe (my first personal cat, RIP) who died right in front of me a few months ago. 4.5 grandparents and nary a funeral for me, though they're all gone now. I wasn't purposely avoiding their funerals, just happened to always be too far way. One memorial service this summer but that was outside, in the sunlight, surrounded by my born-again relatives -- and that's it. I wonder what they call it when a born-again calls it quits on the whole religion thing: died-again? Hm. Must research.
Anyway, back from the gym (day 5!) and still sweating in 82 degree humidity, end of summer notwithstanding. I've embraced the gym wholeheartedly (another way of cheating death?) and have lost 4 pounds already. Not working for more than 10 days definitely agrees with me. I'm pretty sure I've completely forgotten how. Which may work out well when I'm fired for general laziness and have no reason not to move to California. Or Kentucky. Or Paris.
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