(this is annie)

For five days a week, I sit in bed and have little to look at but the house across the street. Ideally, I'd feel like Debra Kerr in An Affair to Remember. Realistically, I'm sitting next to a short-legged cat who, despite his own charms, is no Cary Grant. Two days a week, I make the trek to the office. On the plus side, that allows me to talk with people and see things other than the house across the street. On the minus side:

Yesterday it took 70 minutes to get to work. Seventy minutes. The lengthy commute was mostly due to the difficulty of walking two blocks to the train. It was drizzling and my backpack was unusually heavy, which made me have to stop to catch my breath every five feet. Then I had a hard time getting on the train, and after I did, some guy with a mustache accidentally kicked my feet. (Maybe he knew about my anti-mustache activism and wanted me to pay for it, who knows.)

As I ascended the stairs from the subway, I thought, "Oh, it's been at least a month since I've written to Dad. I should really send him a postcard." It wasn't until about five seconds later, while considering where to pick one up, that I remembered. There are so many habits to change and no more letters to mail.

Labels: dad, i can't walk