Two More Things

On this journey of self-discovery (sounds better than a mid-life crisis), I’ve discovered that there are two more things that I don’t understand about my life. And because I’ve dragged you kicking and screaming through this wonderland called my life, I felt like I needed to share. Fear not—nothing has been bleached.

Dry Cleaning

I appear to be allergic to my dry cleaning. I don’t mean that I’m allergic to the chemicals. I don’t mean that I’m allergic to a scent that might adhere to the clothing after they have been cleaned. I don’t mean that the facility itself gives me hives, or that I have a phobia of the plastic garment covers. No, I mean I seem to have a complete and absolute mental block when it comes to picking up my dry cleaning.

“Well, it’s probably far away from you”, you say.

Generous of you, but wrong. I work in the same building as my dry cleaner. I pass it twice a day. I walk right by it on my way to my car every day.

“Well, it isn’t open during the times you pass it”, you say.

Yes, it is. When I leave my job and head to my car to begin my arduous 15 minute drive home (as compared to my 2 hour each way commute in New York), it is open. The cheery man who runs it is ready to do my bidding with a smile. But no, I just keep going.

“Well, you probably just forget that it’s there because you are so distracted”, you say.

Oh, no. I know it’s there. I can feel it calling to me. And I keep walking. I don’t understand. It’s as though the hassles of the day have been too much for me. I can’t take 3 minutes to deviate from my straight-to-home trajectory, even if that deviation is just a slight turn to the left. How does this happen? How did I get to the point where even small inconveniences are too much for my brain to process?

So, I’m setting a new goal: from now on, I’ll pick up my dry cleaning within the same month that I drop it off. Probably. You know, usually. Unless I’m busy, or something good might be on TV.

Communications

I was going over my monthly bills last night, and I came to a stunning revelation. I pay nearly $300 a month on communications devices. Between my cell phone and cell internet access, my two phones lines, my DSL and my wireless laptop card, I pay nearly $300 a month to communicate with the world.

Huh. You’d never know that I hate people.

Of course, I’m kidding. Largely. Mostly. Some days. Ok, I don’t hate everyone, but I’m not exactly the most loquacious person in the world. I essentially have three phones, but when a phone rings, I don’t answer it (because honestly, it’s usually telemarketers, and my cell phone is always turned to quiet). I rarely make phone calls. I call my family, but otherwise I’m not really chatty person. I can go for weeks without actually having a non-familial personal call.

This is insane. Most of the time I want the world to leave me alone—why am I spending a fortune to let it in? Email and internet are obviously essentials because they represent communication on my terms. But this phone thing? Yeah, that’s got to go.

$300--that’s a whole lot of missed shoe buying opportunities.


Kate