Thursday, September 27, 2007

We spoke about a war of words a few Tuesdays ago, a conflict fueled by phone calls and electronic mail, and from it I’ve emerged victorious: sixty-odd bucks salvaged, countless minutes wasted, and a misguided sense of accomplishment that, at least in my mind, far outweighs the monetary benefit. These prolonged arguments always feel slightly dirty, for some reason, especially when you’re in the thick of it, but the path usually involves digging in and taking a cold, detached approach to laying out your responses. The crowning moment was asking the property management company whether time travel would be required to contend with their ridiculous payment process.

The long-term goals of this self-betterment plan are to counteract the wiles of work, to live a little, to fashion a reliable way to stay sharp, and to meet some people. Violin and chess have been deposited just south of Probably and Not. Cooking has been reduced to the artful microwaving of oatmeal and raisins at varying lengths of time, though a recent brainstorm of edgy, almost dangerous entree names–like the Tunabomber, Al Fryda, Pitas and Hamas–may very well save this ship.

Tennis, the one thing to which I’ve cleaved faithfully three times weekly, is the only thing left, then, and accordingly the local tennis association is what’s next to consider. When you obstinately refuse to drink, your possible outlets for social interaction suddenly become extremely manageable. It’s true that community is a construct I like to avoid–never liked the stuff, really–but at this juncture, stubborn insistence is not a choice readily afforded.