A man can be certain of a few things, including the location, however approximate, of his balls. But not this morning. No, even the crotch and its contents have drifted into uncertainty. I mounted the exercycle at an admirably early hour, commenced the 45 minutes of daily aerobics. But not for long. Things had slipped in the crotch department, and they were rubbing most unpleasantly. What to do but summon the fiancé? There she was in a thrice, sorting out one’s squiggly bits, as they say in the UK. But as they say in Quadriplegia Land, the resorting of personal components cost precious time. Certainly, this is to be avoided in the future. Sensible arrangement and double checking at the time of exercycle starting would be the best course. If one has a course these days….careening, tripping, slaloming and caroming through the obstacle course of life. A pinball game that is remarkably scarce on winners, losers or purpose. We are just getting on with it, we are, while vaguely conscious that it’s all good.

Marriage. It was abstract, vague and futuristic until there was a date. Then it became both a pleasant anticipation and an item on the life work schedule. Which would not be any big deal, but for the general cranking up of the production rate. For the longest time demands were few, deadlines only occasional…summertime, and the livin’ is easy, or was. Fish are jumpin’ right into my lap, that is the thing. Which is why it’s a good thing to know where one’s balls are. And the cotton is high…not cotton balls, by the way, which could easily be confused with, you know, the others. There’s too much happening.

Remember the pleasant visit to Chenery Street, San Francisco, just a few blogs ago? Nice to visit the house there, the one on the market, the first of several we seemed destined to visit over the coming weeks and months…the frenzied San Francisco housing market being what it is. Nevermind, one braces oneself, and then…there it is, the call that you’ve got the winning bid. One down, or is it two down or even three down? Hard to say, such are the events rolling my way.

Gob smacked, that is the British expression, and there’s no better. A gigantic gob of life has been flung, expectorant style, right at me, or at us. Rings, did we actually settle on rings this morning? Rabbi conference, suggested for Friday, was it? Honestly, why I don’t know. My knowledge of, not to mention experience of, Judaism being so scant. I really feel like saying to the rabbi, go for it, do what you want…but that’s not really the spirit of things, is it? Besides, Jane is telling me that she really likes planning things liturgical, so this is a new phase, isn’t it? Shared life.

I guess we are not sharing desks. Just look at mine. No, don’t. I barely do. I just dug out some theater tickets, extracted like a rare specimen from geological strata. It was several layers down, the envelope. No sense in opening it up, not just yet, for who knows what a surprise might be within? There’s a note written on a printout from an LED light source, some web company that sells the things, and might just be the thing to illuminate my wheelchair…not that the note has anything to do with wheelchairs. I scrawled something on the bottom of this, something about my former landlord’s 1099 tax records, the property tax bill for my apartments. And, honestly, I haven’t completely forgotten about these things. It’s just that I’m not really on top of them.

Actually, to get a full sense of the organizational heft required to get any of these things done look inside one of my files. They are vaguely titled, their mission or focus never very well conceived. Hasty might be one word. There is one titled “Tom To Do.” It refers to bits and pieces left over from the estate of my former landlord and benefactor. Turns out I owe taxes, his taxes, and I would be happy to pay – when one considers the overall equation – except that I can’t find even the most basic documentation. Jane helped me carefully go through everything in this file…which may have been an enormous mistake. After all, I am complaining of stress. What is in this file but stress? Unless one takes a sort of aesthetic approach. Did you know that stock certificates are actually kind of ornate? I mean they are printed with fancy curly cues and borders and stuff like that, much like money. Which they are. Thanks to Tom. It’s just that they are in his name and this needs to be changed and, well, when in doubt, file. Naturally, one doesn’t complain. It’s like much of my current life. A gift. Complicated and full of details. But never doubt it, a gift.

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