How 1% is it to take yourself out to fancy-pants lunch post-appointment with your accountant? I had the restaurant week menu, everything was delicious, it cost the tax refund I didn’t actually get this year. It turns out that Pratt takes out taxes as if the $5000 they paid me was all I made this year, so I ended up having to give most of it back. But oysters! I couldn’t say no.

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I sat in a chatty row which was a good thing since my tv was broken (so much for the sweet economy comfort seat), and the middle seatĀ  graciously shared out from her stash of free drink tickets, a gift from a flight attendant sympathetic to her plight, a multistop horror flight from Cape Town to Anchorage. It took about three minutes and three gulps apiece for both of my travel companions to declare their absolute I swear comfort with homosexuals even though they themselves are not homosexuals. I really thought at this point I passed as a sensible no-nonsense career woman with a sensible no-nonsense haircut.

I cut out of the Clock and ran down to the museum cafeteria and ate and drank and marveled and then went back to the Clock and was still hours later blown away. You’d think the bloom would come off a piece of video art like that, but this one just sticks around, blowing me away every time, time, time.

So I’m wandering destination-less in midtown, again, I’m like a magnet here, want to disappear inside something huge and beautiful and stark and above me. Ducked in for lunch, sitting in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, staring at a parking garage, get an email about that piece that was like pulling my own teeth out of my skull with my claws, The work is gorgeous says my editor in fine shape this round. Burst into tears.

I’m swallowing my annual $14 salad at the place down the block from my accountant’s apartment. Reading my book. Wondering if I keep getting richer will I automatically get thinner. Guy to my right left half an avocado on his plate. Who does that? Guy across from me has a camera that looks childish and disposably plastic, but I hear him say it cost $900. I take forever. People leave, new people take their places. I suspect the waiters have been told to upsell the salmon. A family arrives. The matriarch is going to leave for the airport at 4:30 for a 7 o’clock flight. God I’m glad I’m not her child. That’s not nearly enough time on a Sunday afternoon. I’m sure she’ll get there early.

I ate at my coffee table and sorted the mail: A Valentine from C., smiling yellow glitter sunflower wearing a baby blue bow in its hair, message inside readsĀ Wishing you a smile-a-minute, lots-of-fun-in-it Valentine’s Day! (awww!); MoMA membership re-up notice (dunno, should I?); Radical Teacher subscription renewal (oof); overdue book notice from my library for a book I haven’t opened yet (oof); cap and gown information from the registrar’s office (but I can’t walk after all); a credit card opportunity for Syracuse alumni like me (no thanks, though your offer of World Points is tempting); two issues of Thoroughbred Times (Zenyatta and Bernardini!).

I ate in the recliner, reading these short stories that are stunning me cold, legs tired from a remarkably short time out on the snowshoes, I am out of all shape, drinking again in the afternoon. Decadent. Still full of breakfast s’mores.