Up the River

During the pandemic and perhaps for a while before, the focus of my mean-girl vanity has centered on the withered skin of my arms and legs. I have suddenly turned into a crepery—producing thin, papery, wrinkled, sagging dermage. The creepy sight of my crepe has made me consider actual exercise—not yoga or walking, but something hard like weight lifting. The thought that I might force myself to undertake a painstaking and possibly painful regimen has given me a sense of foreboding.  The other day, I had a revelation. I don’t have to do anything about the crepe. I can just live with it. It’s not a health hazard. It’s just crepe. Instead of fixing it, I can just get used to it. What a relief!

 We New Yorkers have our masks in a twist these days over electoral primaries that for the first time use ranked voting—which means marking our ballots with up to five candidates for, say, mayor, in the order of our preference. I’ve gotten more than one panicky phone call from an early-voting friend at the polls seeking advice on which candidates to prioritize. Frankly, I don’t really know either. I’ve ended up trolling through endorsements from office holders I respect, like AOC. I hope she’s on the ball here. I know ranked voting is supposed to more truly reflect voters’ desires. But I think there’s a better way. Rank one or two candidates you like or can tolerate, and then negative-rank the ones who turn your stomach. Leave the rest unmarked. That would truly express my feelings. It might mean that someone like Paperboy Love Prince, who’s rapping his speeches and running on a love platform, would become mayor. Given the other clowns on the ballot, there are worse outcomes.

Last week I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Ten days ago, my dermatologist did a shave biopsy of a growth on my scalp. By “shave biopsy,” I mean she shaved part of my scalp along with the growth. I already struggle with my appearance—I’m extremely tall, and cancer treatment left me flat-chested with short, thin, gray hair. But having a gross scab on my scalp was a new blow. I texted a pic of the disaster site to my daughter, who revealed her mastery of empathy. Me: For your eyes only: as if getting old weren’t humiliating enough Daughter: Aw, mom. What was it? Cute mask and jacket! Me: Just a keratosis that had gotten alarmingly big—not even a cancer. But she had to shave part of my scalp. I’m mortified. And then when I was trying to buy a hat to cover it up, the clerk said, Hey, old man, can I help you? I’m never leaving the house again  Daughter: Ugh, mom. That clerk is dumb. Did you get the hat? Me: Yes, but it makes me look like Bozo. I’m having a really bad da

“The eyes are the windows to your soul.” —William Shakespeare No, the windows are the eyes to your soul. I should know. I just washed mine, and my soul looks a lot brighter than it did yesterday.

Other and I spent Memorial Day weekend in the Berkshires with a dear old friend who lost his wife, another dear old friend, about a year ago. On our way from the train station, we stopped by the cemetery to see her gravestone, and when we arrived at the house, we walked over to the little memorial garden he had created on their property.  But it rained all weekend, so after that we mostly sat in the house eating and drinking too much. We had seen him only rarely and briefly during the pandemic, so there was lots to catch up on. After a year of mourning, he has just begun to date, using Match.com. Since Other and I have been together nearly 50 years, we were curious about what our friend had posted about himself and the kind of woman he was seeking. He’s short (5 ft. 7) so he put that in, and widowed, so he put that in—not just because it’s true but also because it’s less off-putting than identifying himself as divorced or even merely single—and he described his work. All good.  But the

When I visited a friend in Beacon who had recently purchased a lovely shingled house on a woodsy plot of land, she mentioned her fear of some of the animals that crossed her property: bears, coyotes, foxes, raccoons, and the like. When I expressed enthusiasm for these species, particularly raccoons, she was surprised.  She may have ascribed my lack of fear to some form of courage. But I know the truth: I may not be afraid of mammal-size creatures, but I am absolutely terrified of smaller beings—lice, ticks, pinworm, bedbugs, mosquitoes, germs.  Yes, it’s the little things in life.