It’s really beautiful in New York right now, the sky is a fluttery blue and it’s sunny and everyone is walking around in flawless new boots. It’s the perfect time to fall in love, if one believed in that sort of thing.
On Sunday, I hosted the brilliant Joshua Mohr, Alexander Chee, and Genifer Robin as part of my Sunset Series I do on occasion, and although we missed the sunset, there was a lovely fireworks display in downtown Manhattan that happened after dark. I claimed that had been the plan all along. If only I ever had a plan.
Later we ate pizza and there was singing, and then everyone left, and even later after that I woke up in the middle of the night with shooting pains up and down my arm. I’d been woozy all day with a terrible headache, and, not to be too gross about it, the dog bites hadn’t healed all week, so I was worried there was an infection, and of course, that I was going to die. Alone. In my apartment. And no one would even know I was gone until they realized I hadn’t tweeted since the weekend.
So off I went to the ER in the wee hours, where I sat and waited with one other sad soul. The only thing I had done right for days it seemed was bring some leftover cookies from the party, and I would have offered some to my comrade, only he kept retching every ten minutes in the bathroom and why should I waste a perfectly good chocolate chip cookie?
I was there for six hours, and slept hunched over for the first two. The doctors were pretty impressed with how deep my wounds were, and I was asked multiple times how much the dog had weighed. “He was little but feisty,” I said to one doctor. To another I said, “What can I say? He was a punk.” I got a tetanus shot and some antibiotics and then I wandered out into the morning sun in a daze. I bought a banana from a street vendor. Eventually I found a cab. He drove with a speaker phone on the entire time. I did not understand the language. He took the BQE, and I gave him directions. Everything lasted an eternity, and then I went home and slept for a very long time.
For forty years I had pristine arms, scarless and smooth, and now, what with miscreant rescue dogs and exploding airbags, I look simultaneously like a junkie and a cutter. I am still beautiful on the inside, though. I will hear no argument otherwise.
I’ve been reading your blog for awhile now. If you have a stat counter, you’re probably terrified of me because one week in June I tried to read every entry you’ve ever written. But I just really loved this post as I feel particularly single right now amidst all of my friends who are procreating and having mommy play dates (I just turned 30), and sometimes your writing makes me feel normal again. So thank you. And I hope your arm feels better.