The day dawned bright and, yes, a bit too bright. One could sense this even at 8:30 AM. Stiil, I was delighted. Fog shrouds San Francisco persistently and in a way the challenges the spirit. At least mine is challenged. And let me point out that I spent four years in London, where in my first June the temperature never got out of the 50s Fahrenheit. So, I should know better. But I don’t. Or to put a much sharper introspective point on it, my spirits are challenged in general.
I headed out for lunch on the #35 Muni, a bus line that hasn’t operated for a year and a half. Thus the pandemic. It’s a remarkable experience, with the #35 creeping up and over Twin Peaks. I had forgotten what a challenge to the abdominal muscles the descent is. Diamond Street in particular. At the bottom, I was delighted to see my friend Cary. Together, we set out in search of well, whatever. For me the whole thing was quite an adventure. I hadn’t been on this part of 24th St., the main thoroughfare in Noe Valley, for…well, again, 18 months. Of course in the COVID-19 era some stores are closed. Others are open. The mercantile beat goes on.
Over lunch, in a wonderfully relocated and remodeled Italian restaurant, we talked about our life and times. Both being in decline, age being what it is. And also Jewish kvetching being what it is. Although I should not belittle this. Frankness, willingness to talk about things mortal. That’s OK. I give Cary and me at least a B+ in the lunchtime conversation grading scale.
By the time I headed home, I was aware of two unpleasant things. The temperature had risen to 82°F, 28 Celsius, which is perhaps the hottest this city has been all year. Yes, not being used to heat, I went into something like denial. I got more and more hot. I experienced mostly impatience. And, of course, the lingering effects of the conversation over lunch. I found myself trying to explain to Cary why people with my type of spinal cord injury go into decline with age. But actually I couldn’t explain it. Apparently no one really can. Still, it was unpleasant territory. And now I was home. And, yes, it was hot.
At 4 o’clock I turned on the tea kettle, poured the usual boiling water over my bag of Yorkshire Gold, grabbed the milk. And failed. Big milk cartons, the half-gallon size, are beyond my neuromuscular capabilities. My weak left hand can’t do it. The simple answer would be to grab a quart. And there were several in the refrigerator. But feeling stubborn, not to mention someone self-defeating, I persisted. Somehow, I got the half gallon (almost full) as far as my lap, where it collapsed unpleasantly onto my iPad. Why the latter was on my lap at that moment is open to conjecture. But not dispute. And it seemed that if I maneuvered to get the leaking milk upright, I would very likely force the iPad to tumble to the floor. Thus the world of the one-handed.
With Jane running errands and on my own, screaming and self-denunciation ensued. After a certain amount of time I realized that I was just plain angry. It didn’t matter what about. Although the lunch conversation explained everything. And at least I can say that by this point in the day I had my mojo working. It tends to be an angry mojo. Whatever. It’s mine.
I quickly turned my angry attention to matters at hand. I had just bought a new charger for my iPhone. Very nifty little thing, it requires no actual plug. Works by contact only. When it works, which mine doesn’t. Of course, To deal with this, of course I had to phone Apple. The first person I talked to couldn’t help me. The second I couldn’t understand. After several frustrating minutes, I was ready to throw in the towel.
Which is not a good idea if you’re trying to build a sense of agency. Finally, after much toing and froing, Messrs. Apple sent me a mailing label for refunds. And an authorization for one of the two chargers I had purchased. Whatever. I didn’t have the strength to deal with this. I will post the whole thing and hope for the best.