I usually try to lift myself out of a funk by just doing simple, easily completed tasks, so that was my goal yesterday morning. On the plus side, I smoothly made a check-up appointment for young June Bug, skillfully scheduled myself in to chat with my financial guru Alex LaBrunerie, and seamlessly executed a notarization of a Stephens student’s absentee ballot.
However, when I received a call from the local endoscopy center inviting me to a “procedure” party, things began to fall apart. I wanted to get it over with, so I told the receptionist November 3rd sounded great. I hung up–then realized that prepping for a colonoscopy in the days leading up to this election, then getting it on Election Day, were dubious choices.
I called back: “How ’bout the Monday afternoon that?” “Perfect! I’ve got you changed.” I hung up, swung my legs onto my desk, and smiled smugly–but WAIT! That would be the day after Nicole’s birthday; would I really want to celebrate with her while chugging Gatorade, eating Jello and popsicles, gobbling Dulcolax, and excusing myself on the hour? NO!
“Sorry, it’s me again. I promise I won’t call again. What’s the next appointment you have available? November 23rd? No, no travel plans for Thanksgiving (unfortunately), so that’ll work.”
Next, I emailed Nicole’s financial advisor to make an appointment for her, then settled in to read and blast away the COVID blues–forgetting that her money magician really prefers calls, and will call you if you forget. The phone snapped me out of my bibliophilic-discophilic trance: “Phil, I just have one question–” Oh no. “–are you sure Warren Zevon’s who you want to be listening to right about now?” We spent the next half-hour talking about Zevon, Alice Cooper, Jesus Christ Superstar (“Sacrilege!” his mom yelled at him as she tossed it), Cher, Glen Campbell, Bob Dylan, and, oh yes, a financial issue. It was actually a very enjoyable visit, but upon hanging up, I realized I was late to our appointment to finalize our estate planning, then, a block away, discovered I didn’t have a mask, then, after the receptionist gave me one, looked at our lawyer’s face and inferred that he was not pleased with the fact that the Chiefs game had just started (at 4:15?). Fortunately, he was forgiving and patiently, even cheerfully, walked us through our wills and stuff.
I successfully got myself home…and found that, despite my stumblings through simple strivings, my funk had lifted. It’s the little things…like shooting layups to get out of a jump-shooting slump.
Streaming for Survivors:
Pass the peas, like they used to say.