Tuesday, January 25, 2011


There were at least two incidents in my life where I’ve appeared to be quite crazy in public. Years ago I waited, ticket-in-hand for my number to be called at a packed Bell store at the ignominious Dufferin Mall. I saw countless twenty-somethings purchase their cell phones, watched their lacquered nails coiling around their new phones, snapping them shut and peeling them open. And still the number on the wall didn’t move. Thirty minutes later I waved my little piece of paper and shouted at the top of my lungs “Seventy-two is a mythical number!” I was seen to straightaway.

I had to get some blood work done at the hospital. Settling in among the shattered and starving I took out my knitting. Twice I jumped up thinking my name was called only to be told to sit back down. Then I crossed my audience a third time to use the phone. I travelled past the clerk, beyond the elevators and through a hallway to the public telephones. Despite my circuitous route I could easily find my way back. My ball of wool had caught on the chair and left a trail across the entire fourth floor of Mount Sinai.

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