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.


Tonight it’s eight.


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.


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.


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.


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


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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