Police and Thieves and Shoes and Dogs

I think my feet are shrinking.  I know my head has shrunk; I went to a psychiatrist.  Really, my head is smaller.  My eyeglasses fit better.  They don’t squish into the fat along my temples.  My ears are still the same size. 

I own a lot of shoes.  A lot of them are covered with dust on the floor of my closet.  I’d have the maid dust them every day, but I don’t have a maid.  The dust is giving the leather a protective shield.  I started with a good variety of colors, but now all of my shoes are grey.

I sold shoes at ZCMI for a few months.  I learned to appreciate good shoes.  I learned how to spot bad shoes.  I learned to loathe customers.

I worked at the long-gone ZCMI in downtown Salt Lake.  I once chased a woman who tried to use a stolen credit card to buy shoes.  I chased her across the store and out into the street.  I caught her in the crosswalk between ZCMI and Crossroads Mall.  I didn’t touch her, but I did lie to her.  I told her that the police and security were on their way to us.  I told her that there was going to be a big scene right here in the street, or she could follow me back into the store where she could talk to the police in the privacy of the security office.  Amazingly, she believed me.  One swift kick from her and I would have dropped like a bag of cement.  She could have easily gotten away.  

Where is the security office?

I escorted her to the security office but it was vacant.  I called security and I was told that security can’t be bothered right now because they’re trying to catch a customer with a stolen credit card.  Exasperated, I explain that I have the thief and I’m at the security office.  They explain to me that I’m not at the security office and to leave them alone because they have work to do.  Click!  The thief is patiently waiting for me.  My threats are unraveling.  Her shoes have pointed toes.  She’s going to kick me and run.  It’s going to hurt.

After repeated calls where I begged, threatened, and bribed, they finally sent one person from security to find me.  I explained to the security officer that this extremely gullible woman wearing pointed shoes what the thief they were looking for.  The security officer escorted us to the real security office.  At some point, they’d moved the security office to the basement of the building.  It would have been helpful to know that.  When we arrived at the security office there were two policeman, the woman who’d had her card stolen, and about fifty security guards.  The victim was crying and thanked me profusely for catching the thief.  The security guards looked at me like I was an idiot for not divining the location of the new office.

I never touched the thief and I didn’t get kicked, but the police did touch her.  She was handcuffed when I left the security office.

I heard later that the thief had stolen the purse of a Nordstrom’s employee in Crossroads mall.  She’d snuck into the backroom and found where the victim had stored her purse and stole it.  She’d grabbed the cash and cards and threw the purse in a garbage can.  She’d made several purchases at ZCMI before the victim noticed her purse was gone and reported the card stolen.  I saved the victim a lot of heartache.  I saved ZCMI a lot of money.

ZCMI would reward their employees for catching thieves. I think the reward was in the range of $50 to $100 depending on the circumstances.  I assumed I would at least get the minimum reward.  Months went by.  Nothing happened.  At first I was disappointed and then I forgot about it.  One day the newly appointed security manager approached me and handed me an envelope.  I was so excited!  $50!  Woohoo! I opened the envelope and found a twenty dollar bill inside.  Later that day, I stole a pair of shoes.

Anyway….

Whenever I find a good deal on good shoes, I can’t resist.  It’s a compulsion, like squeezing the toothpaste tube from the bottom or living in Utah County and voting straight Republican.

Over the years, I’ve gone from a size 12 shoe to a size 15.  Until recently, I thought my feet were growing.  They were growing, but not the bones.  As my feet got fatter, I had to get bigger shoes. Now I have a lot of size 14 and 15 shoes that, like my old clothes, are loose and floppy.

Speaking of loose and floppy, I thought I had a lot of muscle in my arms and legs.  I knew I had a big belly.  I still have a belly even though I’ve lost seventy-plus pounds.  My arms and legs have extra skin now.  It looks great.  I look like a Shar-Pei.

Eat Less, Travel More

I’m traveling this week.  I’m on a business trip.  This is my first business trip in about six years.  I love an occasional business trip.  It gets me out of the office.  I get to see exotic places.  I’ve been to Israel, India, England, Belgium, France, The Netherlands, and now Boise!  After waiting six years for business travel, my first trip is to Boise!  Boise...  In November...

One of the joys of business travel is the expense account.  I can spend quite a bit on food.  I always eat more and better than I do at home.  I don’t mean healthy better, I mean expensive better.  I have a liberal per-day amount for food.  I usually eat light during the day so I have a lot to spend on dinner.  Years ago on a trip to Boston, I had lobster for lunch and dinner.  Not the same lobster.  I had two completely separate lobsters.  I haven’t eaten a whole lobster since.  The reason I haven’t eaten a whole lobster since? Eye stalks.  Lobster tail is good.  No eye stalks on a lobster tail, unless it’s a Chernobyl lobster.  But they’re rare and expensive.

The eating extravaganza used to start at the airport and end at the airport on the return flight.  After a full day of eating, I’d usually finish it off with two quarts of Ben and Jerry’s.  I’m sure there was a daily slice or two of cheesecake in there as well.

Now things have changed.  Just a little.  When I arrived at the airport, it was time to eat.  I drank a Starbucks herbal tea instead.  When I arrived in Boise, instead of going out for dinner at a nice place, I went to a grocery store and bought some seafood salad, Greek yogurt, and sugar free Vitamin Water.  I had to purchase a plastic silverware assortment for $1.25.  I should have eaten with my hands and wiped them on the sheets. Maybe next trip.

I went to Goodwood with a co-worker last night (for the company, not the food). I ordered a high-protein meal.  Everything they serve is high protein.  When my food arrived, my old travel brain said, “humph… not very much food.”   I was able to gorge myself and eat about one-tenth of the meal.  The only time I’d leave a restaurant with a to-go box was when I was taking a third piece of cheesecake for later.  I took most of my meal back to the hotel last night.

I’m learning that the main reason I loved to travel was for the food.  Eating three meals a day at a restaurant was a thrill for me.  A big thrill.  I loved seeing the sights at some amazing places, but in the back of my mind I was always more excited about where I was going eat my next meal.  If someone said, “We can either see the Eiffel Tower or eat at this French restaurant.”  Of course I’m going to eat at the French restaurant.  I can see pictures of the Eiffel Tower on the internet.  But, if someone said, “We can either see the Eiffel Tower or eat at this Burger King.”  I’d still choose the Burger King.  I’m not stupid.  The best solution would be a compromise, “We can eat, and then get something to go, and then eat again while we’re seeing the Eiffel Tower.”  There’s always a solution.

A trip to Boise a year ago would have been thrilling.  Short flight.  Familiar area.  Recognizable food.   Now it’s all business.   I had Greek yogurt at 6 AM.  It’s afternoon now, and I’m not ready for lunch.  I’ll probably eat the rest of my seafood salad in the hotel room tonight.  I’m allotted $300 for food on this four-day trip.  I’ll end up spending less than $50.

I’m happy about this, right?  I’m happy that I’m losing weight and eating less and feeling better.  Right?  RIGHT???  I wrote about the emotional separation from food a while ago.  I thought I was over it a few days after the surgery.  I guess I’m not.

The business trip thrill is gone.  Eating is eating.  About as thrilling as sleeping, using the restroom, or watching “The View.”  But, I did fit in the airplane seat really well.

Hairy Plodder

I used to have hair.  I used to have hair growing where I wanted it.  Now it only seems to grow on my ears and in my nose.  I’d rather not talk about the huge hairy caterpillars that are my eyebrows.  I used to check the mirror to see if my hair looked good.  Now check the mirror to see if any nose hairs are hanging out.

When my Dr said one of the side effects of surgery is hair loss, I thought, “What hair?”  Does it really matter to me if I have even less hair?

I had good hair.  I thought it was good hair.  In seventh grade I quit going to barber Paul and went to an actual hair stylist.  A woman hair stylist.  I had to make an appointment and everything.  She parted my hair in the middle and feathered it back on both sides.  It was winter and I was wearing a knit cap.  When the stylist was done, I put the cap on so carefully so I wouldn’t mess up my “feathered style.”  I ran to the mirror when I got home.  I carefully removed the cap.  I was so disappointed.  My feathers were flat.

The next morning before school, I figured out how to feather my hair on my own. This was a huge accomplishment for me. I went to school nervous and excited.  I must have checked myself in the mirror a hundred times that day.  I was looking good.  Really good.

I feathered my hair for about four years, and then my favorite rock star of the time parted his hair on the side and grew it really long on top and in back.  So I did too.  Then my rock star started to bleach his hair in front.  So I did too.  I started with ‘Sun-In.’  I wasn’t getting much sun, so I tried peroxide and a blow dryer.  Within a few days, my hair had turned a beautiful golden blonde.  I’m just kidding.  My hair had turned an ugly orange/rust.  It’s the color that says, “I’m too cheap to have this done professionally, so I poured some chemicals on my hair and crossed my fingers.”

I thought I was cool.  I looked kind of like my rock star.  Kind of.  This was the mid-eighties, and the new-wave look was in style.  It was in style in ‘Somewhereville’ where rock stars pose for photographs.  In my small hometown, I fit in like a baby kangaroo in a den of Dingos.

Finally, I’d had enough. I wanted my own style.  Plus, I thought, “I’m going to do some serious damage if I keep putting chemicals on my hair.”  I’d be much better off if I let a cosmetology student do it.  The result was much better.

Toward the end of my senior year, I still had cool hair and it was falling out.  It wasn’t falling out a little bit.  It was coming out in wads. I’d run my fingers through my hair, and it was like I was petting a shedding dog.  I was thinking, “Chemical abuse has killed my hair.”  From now on, no more bleaching.  The only chemicals I’ll use are hair dyes (jet black, black with purple hues, pink, red, pink with red stripes, red with pink stripes, etc).

I returned home from an LDS mission three years after high school.  It’d been at least two years since I’d used chemicals.  I still had some hair on top, but you could see through it.  I was near comb-over land, but not quite there.  One day, my ever helpful mother pulled me aside, and after seeing that we were alone, she said in a nervous but serious tone, “Brad, I need to talk to you about something.”  I was alarmed!  Agggghhhh.  She should have had this talk with me about ten years ago.  Fortunately she didn't give me an anatomy lesson.  But, using the same serious tone, she told me that she was concerned about my hair loss.  She told me that she’d made an appointment with our family Dr to get a prescription for Rogaine.  She handed me some Rogaine coupons. I was wishing she would've given me the “other” talk.

I didn’t go to the Dr.  I didn’t use Rogaine.  I’m a disappointment to my mother.  Actually I bought a toupee.  Actually, I’m kidding.

I've kept my hair stubble-short for several years now.  I’m old and lazy and having really short hair is a convenience. Plus, I was really starting to do the comb-over.  I swear I wasn’t doing it intentionally, but I’d go to a stylist, and they’d cut it to “minimize my bald spot.”  I’d look face-on in the mirror and I’d think, “Yeah!  I’m looking great. I’m not losing that much hair.”  Then I’d see a photo of the top of my head – I belong to the head-down-photo cult – and I’d cringe.  The bald spot wasn’t minimized.  It was huge!  Worse, there were four or five wispy hairs stretched across the vast open area. So, I started buzzing my head. 

Sometimes the stubble will grow out a bit between haircuts.  I can usually get about six-weeks growth before I start to look funny… well… funnier.  Shortly after surgery I got a fresh haircut.  Afterwards, one thing led to another (I was lazy) and I let it grow longer than normal.  This is usually fine other than it takes a minute to get the comb-over just right.  But, this time my hair was thinning.  The Dr was right.  But, weirdly enough, it was only thinning in certain spots on my head.  I’d try to get a spot to perk up and it was too thin.  Another spot was normal.  Another spot seemed coarse. One spot it was sticking straight out.  I looked like I’d spent two-weeks in Chernobyl (a great place, I gave it a glowing review).  I’d wear hats.  It is hard to look dignified in a suit and a trucker hat, but I think I pulled it off.

Gratefully a neighbor sacrificed her evening at home to give me a haircut. 

The Dr said the stress on the body after surgery can cause hair loss or thinning.  I really don’t mind.  I found the toupee on a shelf in the garage.

How it is, so far...

First of all, thanks.  So many people have made nice comments about this blog.  People have also said, “You’re looking good.”  Whenever I hear this, I spin around to see who’s behind me.  There is no way someone is saying that to me.  It is kind of like when a teenager calls me sir or mister.  I think they must be talking about my Dad.  But, people actually are complementing me over my weight loss.  I really appreciate it.  I’m flattered and embarrassed at the same time.

People ask me if it has been hard or if I throw-up a lot or if the ‘dumping syndrome’ is getting me down.  Some ask if I’d do it again.

Has it been hard?  No.  It’s been easier than any other diet I’ve tried.  I don’t get hungry.  I don’t crave food.  Certain foods taste better than others, and I prefer to eat certain foods, but I don’t crave them.  This is pretty remarkable considering I’d fill my car floor with drool while waiting in the drive through for my Whopper (with cheese, no tomato).  I do feel empty from time to time, but usually some liquids or a little food will take care of it.  My only indulgence is Greek Yogurt with Honey.  It’s doctor approved so I’m going with it.

Has it been hard?  Yes.  The first six weeks were difficult.  I felt very weak.  The weight was dropping off, but I didn’t have the energy to enjoy it.  I had to stick to very soft foods.  Any meat (beef, chicken, pork, even fish), no matter how thoroughly I’d chew it, would get stuck in my throat.  You know the painful feeling you get when you take too big of a swallow?  That’s how it feels; only it’s persistent.  Sometimes it would pass into my pouch, other times it would come back up.  I’d do a sort of semi-vomit (delightful, huh?), and up would come the meat.

Do I throw-up a lot?  Compared to getting the flu once in a while, I throw-up a lot.  It is a weird experience.  I get all the classic symptoms of having to throw up (watery mouth, a need to heave on a new carpet, wedding dress, polished floor, etc.), but sometimes it is just a throat clearing experience.  It isn’t that painful.  And the results are certainly less painful than having food stuck in your throat.   I had the full blown flu-type vomiting this past weekend.  I’d just eaten some food, and five milliseconds later I had my head in the kitchen sink (It was urgent, and I couldn’t find a wedding dress).  I knew there was food in the pouch, but my body did the standard vomit contractions.  Nothing came out of the pouch.  It was the driest of dry heaves.  It went on and on and on.  My son didn’t know what was going on.  He thought I was grunting to a song on my iPod.

Dumping Syndrome happens to me from time to time, but I really haven’t had major problems with it.  I try to be really careful with the types and quantities of food that I eat.  The biggest “dumping” trigger seems to be when I drink Pero with Sweet ‘N Low.  Does anyone remember Postum?  I loved Postum.  I was heartbroken when Kraft Foods discontinued it.  I guess the Utah market wasn’t enough to sustain the brand.  So, now I drink Pero as a Postum replacement. This is pretty funny considering Pero is marketed as a Coffee replacement.  If you add enough sweetener and creamer, Pero is drinkable.  Sometimes when I drink Pero, it triggers the dumping part of the ‘Dumping Syndrome.”   If you know what I mean.

Would I do it again?  Yes.  The positives outweigh the negatives.  I no longer have type-two diabetes.  I no longer have sleep apnea.  I’ve lost sixty pounds.  I’ve gone from 3x shirts to XL shirts.  I’ve gone from a forty-six inch waist to a thirty-eight.  I’ve gone from a quadruple to a triple chin.  I’ve re-grown hair (unfortunately it is in my nose, eyebrows, and ears).

I think I’m through with the worst of it.  The hospital stay was pretty miserable.  The psychological break with my comfort foods (all foods) was difficult, but I got over it after two weeks of non-stop crying.  The overall physical weakness was hard.  I’d get winded on short walks.  Climbing stairs felt like climbing Everest without oxygen.

Now I feel pretty good.  I’m used to the foods I can eat.  I don’t eat to fill emotional needs or out of boredom.  I’m gaining strength.  Sometimes I really feel like I’ve cheated the system.  Diets are supposed to be a struggle, a sacrifice.  Other than the first few weeks of adjustment, I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing anything. 

The doctor says that I’ll lose all of my excess body weight.  He also showed me statistics of how many people keep the weight off long term.  Statistically, I’ll gain some of the weight back.  But, I hope to beat the stats and keep the new me around for a while.  

My knees ache and I know why. I need a bigger car.

I bought a Ford Focus in 2003.  It was a great deal, and it has been a great car.  My son drives it now.  He wishes it was a Chevy Camaro.  When I turned the car over to him, I thought he’d be thrilled.  He told me the other day that it is a ‘good’ car, but he hates the body style and is a little embarrassed to drive it.  The ignorance of a parent.

The Focus was fun to drive, got decent mileage, and had fog lights.  You can’t get any cooler than fog lights.  As I grew bigger and bigger I noticed I liked the Focus less and less.  It came to the point that even the fog lights couldn’t make me happy. 

In a previous life, I would go to the convenience store every morning for a few gallons of diet cola and a donut or two.  I’d pull up in my Ford Focus and see my reflection in the window; a two-pound marshmallow in a one-pound bag.  The seat had worn flat; the driver’s side suspension was sagging.  My body filled half of the car.  The seat was still comfortable.  The leg room was great.  I was having a problem with the width room.  The space between the door and the center console had shrunk. 

When I would sit, I couldn’t comfortably cross my legs.  I couldn’t comfortably keep my knees less than three feet apart.  I looked like I was preparing to give birth to a cow.  A full-grown cow.  Oh, I know it is sexy to sit all spread out, and it is all the rage at state dinners, meeting with the Queen, etc.  But, I really didn’t like to sit with my legs splayed.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s all the mooing.

So, to fix my sprawled leg problem, I went shopping for a new car.  My only criterion was seating comfort.  That’s what I told each salesperson.

I was shopping for a new Honda.  I was sitting in a new Accord.  I liked the car, but my left knee was smashed up against door.  The center console was digging in to my right knee.  There’s forty yards of open space between my knees.  I asked the salesperson if he likes beef.

It’s no on the Honda.  Also, no on the Ford Mustang.  During my non-cow-bearing years, I’d rented a Mustang on a business trip and really liked it.  I’d test driven one a year or two after the rental and almost bought it.  At that time, my wife said no.  She went on and on about the fact that we have three kids and the back seat of the Mustang only had two seatbelts.  I really didn’t see a problem, but the law is the law.  This time around, I thought I’d try out the Mustang again.  I did.  Stripped bare and two tubes of multi-purpose grease later, I'd slid into the driver's seat and was ready for the test drive.  It was a little embarrassing driving a car naked.  I did have soft skin for a few weeks.

I searched off and on for several weeks to find a new car.  I’d call dealerships and ask them about leg room.  They’d all reply, “This here car has the best leg room of any car in its class.”  Each dealer was ready to outdo the other.  I think they were up to eight feet of leg room when I finally quit calling.

I finally settled on a Nissan Altima.  I wanted a Maxima, but it only had 7 ½ feet of leg room.  When I first sat in the Altima, I knew it was the car for me because my knees didn’t hit the console or the door.  I could comfortably give birth to twin cows while driving I-15 during rush hour.  I didn’t care if the car was built with cardboard and had a two hamster engine (one for forward, one for reverse).  This car fit me.  I could sprawl to splitting and still be comfortable.

I bought the Altima almost two years ago.

The other night I was sitting on the living room floor cross legged.  I wasn’t doing Yoga.  I was playing some mind-numbing game on my Android Pad.  The game was so completely mind-numbing that I didn’t even realize I was sitting cross legged.  When I realized what I was doing, I took deep cleansing breaths and began to meditate.

I'm amazed.  I can sit cross legged.  I can put my leg on my knee (not the same leg).  I can sit comfortably with eight inches of space between my knees (I just measured).  I don’t have to sit like I’m giving birth to someone’s yearly supply of beef.  Now I can sit like I’m birthing a smaller mammal, like a badger.

Eating In My Sleep

I'm on my back on the kitchen floor.  I’m asking my wife if I need to go to the hospital.  She says no.  I ask her again.  She says no, again.  My big toe on my right foot looks really bad.  Like I’d stuck my bare foot under the lawn mower or tried to kick an angry badger. 

I take Ambien.  It’s for insomnia.  The coolest part about Ambien is when you don’t take it; you get to stay up all night.  If I have to work all night, I don’t take Ambien.  It’s better than an energy drink, or having the neighbor’s house burn down.  New slogan, “On those nights you just don’t want to sleep, forget your Ambien.”

I went with my son on a Boy Scout overnighter.  At eleven PM, I realized I’d forgotten my Ambien.  I was about eight miles from home.  I didn’t want to bother driving home and driving back again.  Plus I was worried that the campground gate might be closed, or I’d have to deal with angry campground hosts.  To become a campground host you have to have a degree in hostility with a minor in aggression.  I wanted to be a campground host, but I made the mistake of majoring in hospitality.  After graduation, the Forest Service turned me down.  I ended up working in a hospital.

Spending the night in a tent with a thirteen year-old boy can be a lot of fun.  The fun part is when you fall asleep right after crawling in your sleeping bag and sleep the whole night.  That way you’re only conscious of what you’re doing for about ten minutes.  I was able to enjoy the whole ninety seven hours.  I went to bed at eleven, and crawled out of the tent three years later at five AM.  Really, my son isn’t bad to share a tent with.  There were minimal strange odors.  Kids don’t really mean what they say when they talk in their sleep, right?  Just to be safe, I slept with a hatchet for a few weeks.

I was determined to get off Ambien when I went in for surgery, so I didn't ask for it in the hospital.  I was loaded up on Morphine for my first twenty four hours.  I didn’t sleep.  The next day I was loaded up on liquid Lortab, I didn’t sleep.  I didn’t sleep for four days.  I could get close to sleep.  We could almost hold hands, and then sleep, being the jerk that it is, would run away laughing.  So, back to the Ambien.  I’m not proud of it.  Don’t judge me.

Before surgery, I was told that my metabolism would change and that change would be a contributing factor in curing type II diabetes.  I didn’t realize how the metabolism change would affect me in other ways.

I’m just plugging along, taking my Ambien at bedtime, and sleeping.  One night I take an Ambien.  I don’t fall asleep for a few minutes, so I get up to get a drink.  It’s all a blur from there.  I fell off a stool.  My toe gets shredded so bad that the only hope is amputation.  My wife is trying to stop me from ripping off my toenail and (what I thought was) dead skin.  I vaguely remember hydrogen peroxide and bandages.

The next morning I'm limping around, hurting.  I’m ready to eat some leftover sirloin tips for breakfast.  I open the fridge, and they’re mostly gone.  I’m angry.  “Who ate my food?  Was it one of the kids?”  My son walks in and says, “You ate your food.  I came upstairs last night and you were sitting there eating them.  You told me about how you’d hurt your toe and then you visited with me for about twenty minutes.”

I'm wondering how I fit several sirloin tips inside of me?  Maybe I stuffed them in my cheeks and chewed on them through the night. And, what did I say to my son?

The next night, I take my Ambien, and wander out to the kitchen to eat a few beans from a can of pork and beans.  The next morning, I awake with this vague feeling that my wife was mad at me last night.  I think she even yelled at me.  Later that day, my wife tells me that the night before, I’d eaten the entire can of pork and beans.  When she caught me, she yelled at me and took the bowl away.  Our first fight.

A few months ago, I could put away a plate of sirloin tips and a can of pork and beans and still have room for cheesecake.  Now, my pouch (stomach) will hold about three air molecules.  How I packed away so much food without heaving is still a mystery.

And, I still don't know how I messed up my toe.  Maybe it was a badger.  Maybe he wanted my sirloin.  I don't know.

My wife and I have worked out a system.   I only take an Ambien when I’m in bed.  Right after I take it, she bolts me down with metal straps.  Then she locks all the doors and sets the motion alarm.  I guess it keeps me safe. It is inconvenient. I’m grateful for bedpans.

Seriously, I’ve cut back to a half dose of Ambien.  My wife gets very nervous if I get out of bed for any reason.  After waking up in St George a couple of times, she’s taken away the car keys.

The Last Emotional Connection

Vietnam Wall - Washington DC

November 2003

I’m wearing the pants I wore on a trip to Washington DC back in 2003. At least I think they’re the same pants.  They look the same as what's in the photo. I’m going to say they are.  I wore them on a trip to DC with my younger brother. He was interviewing for medical school. I was there to annoy him and split the costs. He’s now a PharmD, and I’m still annoying.

It was on that trip that we crashed the rental car. We needed a rental car so we could pay the $10/day fee to let it sit in the hotel garage while we used the subway. Driving in thick traffic from the Baltimore airport to our luxurious Day’s Inn near Embassy Circle, a Pakistani man turned right into our lane and our car. We were very lucky. We were lucky we weren’t hurt, which is pretty hard to do when you’re hit in the fender by a car going ½ mile per hour. We were also lucky because the man didn’t speak English, didn’t have a driver’s license, and the car he was driving was borrowed from a friend. I'm fairly certain he didn't have insurance either. Somehow we managed to exchange information. I notified the rental car company. When we drove the car back to the rental lot at the end of our trip, the lot attendant told us we shouldn’t have bothered reporting it. He said, “It’s barely noticeable,” as he smeared some dirt over the dent. I appreciated his dedication to customer service.  A month or so later the rental car company called to tell me that I wasn’t liable for the accident. Accident? What accident?

I’m sorry to reminisce over old clothes again. I really don’t have this emotional co-dependency with clothing. My wife left several boxes and bags of my old clothes on the porch for the Multiple Sclerosis Society to pick up this morning. It really didn't bother me.  It only took my son, my wife, and the two drivers of the MS truck to pry me free of a box of old clothes. I was sobbing and screaming, “How can you do this to me?!?!” My son went inside the house; my wife followed and shut the door behind her. The MS drivers hopped in their truck and left me sitting there, alone, without my memories. Does anyone know what happens to clothes collected by the MS Soceity?

I’m down to my last pair of saved jeans. The Washington DC jeans. The ones I’m wearing today. I guess I’ll have to start hitting the thrift stores again.