A Farewell to Arms

I have decided that should I ever have to have both of my arms amputated, I will learn to type with my feet and write a memoir bearing the title above.

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Tonight it’s eight.

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Last night I had the pleasure of introducing someone from my day life to people from my night life. I must say it pleases me when two circles fit together with such ease.

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The other day a friend and I lay in the grass at a park. It felt so damned good to lie there, my head cushioned by the earth, the sun warming my body. I wore sunscreen on my face, as I do every day, but not on my chest or limbs. I’m still red in those places, several days later.

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It’s almost time for shorts weather. I’m wearing some now, in fact, though I’ve decided I won’t be wearing them in public. My legs look funny to me, and not only because they bear weird-ass bruises that I guess I’ll attribute to the turnstiles at the subway stations.

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I’m going to return to the gym, damn it.

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This morning I took a cab, and when I exited said cab, a man in a car parked next to us rolled down his window and said, “You just opened that door into my car.” I looked at him, looked at his car, and looked at the door I’d just closed and said, “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,” for it was impossible. He replied: “Then why did I feel my whole car shake when you opened the door?” I stared at him a moment. He looked like a disconsolate man, one who was always looking for someone or something to blame for the anger he carries with him all the time.

My own anger rose briefly, and I wanted to say, “perhaps you need to adjust your medication.” Immediately I felt guilty for thinking that and bit my tongue. Instead I just said, “I’m sorry, but you are wrong” and started walking away. He yelled at me: “You bitch.” I’m pretty sure that’s a first. I turned and looked at him a moment but didn’t say anything. What can you say to someone as unhappy as that?

Oddly enough, everyone else I encountered on my way to work was inordinately courteous. A young man held the door for me at the station; another offered me his seat on the train, even though I was content to stand; a woman tapped me on the back to tell me my wallet was about to fall out of my purse. That’s three nice people, vs. one jackass. I firmly believe that ratio is representative of the world.

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