Recovery Road

We don’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure this one.

Being a good Catholic boy, I live to feel guilty, and in the past few days as I climb out of the Covid abyss, I am getting those familiar stirrings once again.

You should be working on your novel. You should clean up this apartment, it’s a hellhole. You should be eating better.

There’s nothing like guilt to let you know you’re healing.

When I’m sick, I don’t give a damn about writing or cleaning or reading or healthy eating, or any of the other various vows I have made to myself over the years. And guilt is nowhere to be seen.

But now, I’ve finished my first week of work since coming back from L.A., I’m starting to feel a little stronger, and, thus, thoroughly ashamed of my inaction.

Yes, I’ve been watching far too much TV. My living couch has permanent dent in the cushion where I’ve parked my keester for far too many days. But my head has been too fried for reading.

I’ve been especially enjoying the old Sherlock Holmes movies with Basil Rathbone as the legendary detective, and Nigel Bruce, as the massively dimwitted Dr. Watson, which are available on YouTube with limited but annoying commercial interruption.

I used to watch these films with my family when I was kid so there’s tons of nostalgia here.

I watched “The Scarlet Claw,” which was about a series of murders in rural Canada, “Sherlock Holmes in Washington,” where our hero took on spies in the nation’s capital, and “Pursuit to Algiers,” which, for the most part, takes place on an ocean liner.

Rathbone and Bruce did a total of 14 films between 1939 and 1946. They were corny, low budget, and I absolutely loved them.

But they’re only an hour or so long and when they’re over I return to my old cranky self.

Elementary, my dear Watson…

This is hardly news to anyone who knows me, but today I had a bad experience at my local grocery store that highlighted my anger management issues.

Now, not to make excuses, (yeah, right) but I was contending with a couple of challenges. In addition to trying to bounce back from Covid, one of my hearing aids decided to crap out on me this morning. (Notice how I take this personally.)

Fixing this problem promised to be expensive and time-consuming, since the hearing aid people I work with are in Manhattan and replacement parts are costly.

And naturally this just had to happen at the start of Thanksgiving Week.

I staggered around the supermarket boiling inside. Oh, great, I thought, more money down the toilet, to join the doctor bills, and the travel expenses—which $1,000 higher than I had bargained for—and every else coming my way.

Hey, I whined, how about somebody steps up and gives me money instead of raiding my wallet?

Yes, I was in full self-pity mode, gorging myself on endorphins, which like any other drug feels good for a short time—until you crash.

And it got worse when it was time to ring up my stuff. I struggled through the crowds and did battle with an automatic checkout machine that seemed to be lying in wait for me.

Insane, of course, but I didn’t want anything to do with logic as I bugged a young employee twice to help me ring up my goods.

Now brace yourself for a shock, but there was nothing wrong with this machine. It hadn’t rung up my order because I neglected to insert my credit card.

The people in the store weren’t in my way. I was the obstruction—me and my 20-megaton attitude.

When I got home, I decided to fiddle with the hearing aids one more time. I switched the batteries and, using my vast powers of deduction, I determined that one of them was dead.

Once I replaced it, I was back to stereo hearing again.

Of course, I’m relieved that I’ve been spared all that effort and expense. But I could’ve saved myself a lot of misery if I had tried this several hours earlier.

Okay, so every journey has its rough spots. You get lost, you find your way, and you get back on the road.

Happy Thanksgiving.