This never would have happened in Hawaii.
I lost a glove this week and I can’t help thinking that if I had gotten that job in Hawaii that I had interviewed for last year I wouldn’t have lost my glove because I wouldn’t have been wearing gloves in the first place.
I also wouldn’t be wearing scarves, parkas, ski caps, boots, long underwear or any of the other several tons of crap and equipment that I have to wrap around myself if I so much as contemplate exiting my crib.
No, if I had gotten that Honolulu gig, I’d be wearing flowered shirts, white shorts, and sandals while cheerfully guzzling exotic tropical drinks and leering drunkenly at comely young tourists.
I’d have a tan to beat the band and I’d be happy, oh so incredibly happy, as opposed to the miserable frozen wretch that I am now.
I’d almost lost one of these gloves a year ago while doing a stay-cation, but I found it at my gym the following day.
I lost it again on Tuesday at my gym, but two kind ladies at the front desk held it for me and I reunited the wayward glove with its mate.
But on Thursday I lost if for real, or as my boxing instructor likes to say, for real for real. Even the gym ladies can’t help me now.
It happened somewhere along my evening commute, either on the walk up Broadway to the bus stop, or on the bus itself. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I off the X27, reached into my pocket and came away with a handful of nothing.
You feel so stupid at times like this. How could you be so careless? Why weren’t you paying attention? Now all you have was is the useless survivor as a nagging reminder of what a first class dope you are.
I’ve got at least three other pairs of gloves so it’s not like I’ll be staggering out into the Artic Circle with frostbitten stumps where my fingers used to be.
But I’m not one to let myself off the hook easily.
I was having a particularly rough morning at the gym on Thursday as I did a round of mitt work with Abby, my boxing instructor. He always gives us a hard time, but I was really tanking during this round.
It’s Not You…
I couldn’t get out of my own way. Abby was hitting me at will, I was missing easy shots, and I heard one of my buddies say, “relax, Rob, relax!”
But it wasn’t happening. That bum round haunted me for the rest of the class, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop blaming myself for putting on such a lousy performance. At the end of the class I approached Abby to confess my sins.
“I didn’t do so well today,” I said.
“Oh, that was me,” Abby said. “I changed up the routine on you today. Remember, it’s never you guys. It’s always me.”
I was suddenly vindicated. I didn’t have to beat the crap out of myself after all. Hell, that’s Abby’s job. I went to the office and actually had a pretty decent day.
Until I lost my glove.
All right, I thought. That’s that. Put it behind you and get on with your life. You’ve got far more important things to worry about.
And I really believed I had gotten over the lost glove, but that night I went to bed and slipped face first into a full-on fiasco of a dream.
It started with me and my sister going to Manhattan together; or at least we were together until I got on the train and realized that I had neglected to take my sister with me.
I get off at some alternate reality version of Times Square, angry with myself, of course, for leaving my sister behind.
I came upon a crowd of people moving all these boxes and crates around. I took off my parka to help them out, and when the stuff was cleared away, all the people had vanished and I saw my parka had disappeared, too.
I was stunned at my own foolishness. Why the hell did you take your coat off in a crowded area like Times freaking Square? You’re going to freeze to death, you loser.
So once again I had to berate myself—even in my sleep. I woke up so thankful that my parka was still here to keep my butt warm.
I’m going to keep a close eye on the replacement gloves and an even closer eye on the self-condemnation, which only serves to make a bad situation worse.
And I sincerely hope my next dream takes me to Hawaii.