I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since starting work in October, assuming all the rumors about associate life must be based in some fact. They are, and it’s dropped, a black patent pump now sitting in my lap, saying “Slide me on and run out the door, no time for exercise, but don’t forget to slap off that alarm…You’re talking to shoes in your sleep.”
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There are long stretches where the only useful body part is a pointer finger. Click. Click. And the rest of you is humming, frustrated, tired. To calm down: prop your elbow on the table and lean your head into your hand. Stretch your thumb around to the back of your skull, and run it over the soft bump at the back, hidden under hair. You’re holding your whole fragile self in one hand, your animal self that could so easily be trumped by sickness or chaos, and a screen comes down between that immediate self and any speculations about how your next few days are going to play out.
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The family short-hand for one-uppers, people who hear your story only as a jumping-off point for their own, is this: a Paula Poundstone bit about the guy who hears Martin Luther King Jr.’s momentous speech and responds, “Well, ok, but in MY dream…” I hate that guy, and me being sleepy is not that interesting to anyone, full stop. Affirmatively Interesting: social dynamics at an engagement party, friends who fly across a state for 24 hours to wish you well, finding a Chinese foot massage joint across town that will heal a fractured brain for twenty dollars. Saturday was interesting. More of interest, I hope, soon to come.