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Chris Magyar

They Can't All Be Winners

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Today, I barely noticed the weather. Was it hot? Cool? Normal? Abnormal? I woke up at 5 a.m. to walk the anxious poodle, who was pacing the bedroom and panting. We stumbled around in the dark. I had no shoes or socks on. The pavement was rough, and bit at the soles of my soft feet. Cricket sniffed with an addict's attention then let loose a pathetically small dropping, far from any streetlamp. Should I sheathe my hand in a bag and hunt around in the grass for the nugget? Diary, I hope you forgive me for my American laziness. We padded back to the house. I guess it was cold then. I was too tired to notice.

Instead of retreating to the mattress for 90 minutes, I stayed awake and the let the Internet casually grip my brain until the morning alarm went off. The usual routine: shower, shave, dress -- always making one phenomenally poor choice of clothing in the closet, today's being pants that were far too tight about the belly -- kiss V, say something amusing to her that she will forget in a drugged dream haze, say something ironically abusive to the dog (who is immune to both irony and cooing abuse), grab the briefcase that I carry every day even though it is completely empty, and get in the car, which is climate-controlled.

The office is also climate-controlled, and thanks to the cafeteria on the first floor, I do not need to step outside its doors until after 5 o'clock. In the morning, I have a strong cup of tea. My computer has two screens, and I have separated them like halves of my brain -- the left contains active work and websites and graphics to be altered; the right is for e-mail and schedules and tasks and text to be copied and pasted. Some days, I feel guilty about getting paid to copy and paste. Other days, like today, which was a hectic flurry of deadlines, I recognize that it takes a peculiar (if not necessarily intelligent) mind to copy and paste so many things so correctly in such an order. Whatever, I can be proud of myself.

I went to the bathroom far too often, because of the pants.

By quitting time, I was so anxious to come home to V that I hardly noticed the temperature during the fifty-yard walk from door to parking garage. The commute home was mildly slow, nothing to complain about. I was again outdoors during the short walk from parking space to staircase, and technically during the three flights from ground to door, though covered by the stairwell archway. 

Home was a reunion and a catch-up and an hour of companionable solitude, as dull and spiritually refreshing as any cliche you can imagine of a happy couple. I did walk the dog. I have a bad habit of futzing with my phone while I walk her, like your stereotypical modern man who fears being alone with his own brain. It's not that, really. It's more that I never know how to say "hello" to people who walk past me. The phone is a pretext of privacy that allows me to be perfectly rude to strangers. In any case, I became so engrossed in an RSS feed that I forgot to note the sunniness or cloudiness or whateverness of the day.

After neglecting dinner in favor of beer, we headed off to the Hollands for a marathon wrap up of this season's Mad Men. It was good. Other blogs can give you the discussion you crave about that.

Here, it's all about the small space of time between the Hollands' door and our car, then again our car and our door. Was it hot? Cool? Normal? Abnormal?

Dear God, I have a blog and I don't even know how to write about the fucking weather.

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