A concatenation of events

Last night I was beginning to feel better from a series of upsets that began with my latest move, or maybe even with the first of my series of moves that began four years ago. I had made my lunch and breakfast for the week. I had exercised and grocery shopped. Finally I had unburdened myself of some of the cognitive dissonance between what I saw, and apparently others saw when the movie star started talking to the chair last week.

I stood up to make my homey preparations for bedtime, and stepped in a pool of water. It was a pool of water almost as big as this room (not very big, but still, almost as big as it could be) and it had spilled over from the bathroom, where it had begun because I had left the sink tap running, rinsing a pair of tights.

As I threw every absorbent thing I had (a quilt, sheets, towels, pillows) into the pool, to keep the neighbors’ ceiling from caving in, my heart thudded with dread far beyond the immediate disaster — I am not fit to live alone, unassisted, I am an attention deficient imbecile, and by the time I finish paying for whatever damage comes of this, I will be dead. I told the building manager — he said: I will get you a couple of paper towels. So help me. I explained it wasn’t like that, and he called the janitor. I called my mother and main squeeze and they both were kind. The janitor came and  told me not to be stressed. He told me he had just had to attend the funeral of a dear girl, died young and violently — and gave me specifics I won’t mention here because they probably were in the newspaper. I said that put things in perspective. He gave me more details. The church where she tithed wouldn’t hold the service. We agreed churches seem to forget what they are there for sometimes.

By the time I finished washing and drying all the things I had used to sop up the water, it was nearly midnight, so I set my alarm an hour later than usual. At six a sound like an air-raid alarm began, slowly waking me up, and as I woke up, I felt certain the sound was the result of something I had screwed up, forgotten to do. I finally clambered down from the loft bed to see what it was, upon which it stopped. I suspect now it was an alarm clock set to rouse a neighbor who sleeps with the help of coma-inducing medication, because 15 minutes later it began again, as if suspended only by a snooze button, and continued, again, until I clambered down from the loft again, this time for good.

It was a long day, not the refreshed, rested kind I thought the holiday weekend would give me. I worked late to make up for working slow. When I got home, I opened my mailbox, although I never get mail and found a letter from my new health insurance plan. I opened it in the elevator, to see that it was something about the plan fulfilling its obligation under a 1998 act to notify me of all the services I would be eligible for in the event I need a mastectomy. I don’t, as far as I know, but am glad to have insurance, and be eligible for all the further surgeries and prosthetic devices I apparently deserve by virtue of having insurance.

I hope, however, that the rest of the week brings no further deviation from the most mundane routine.

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