My Medical Problems

A million years ago, before we even met, The Spouse managed a Wendy’s. He comes from an entire dynasty of Wendy’s managers. In order to relieve the boredom of the job, he invented games he could play while doing his various tasks.

His most successful was Dining Room. He observed that there are no more than four basic topics of conversation in any restaurant. While cleaning the dining room, the Wendy’s employee was charged with eavesdropping on the diners and keeping a mental tally of the topics they were discussing. Those topics inevitably fell into these categories:

4. Those Darn Kids
3. My Day Shopping
2. Can you Believe What SHE Did?

And Number One, that is, the most commonly overheard topic in restaurant (not just in Wendy’s . . . I challenge you to test this for yourself) is

1. MY MEDICAL PROBLEMS

I insist that it doesn’t matter if you are in a fast-food chain, such as a Wendy’s, or a high-end fancy place. I once overheard a man, in Columbus’ premier French restaurant at the time, say the words “runny bowels.”

I am not easily distracted from a meal. I can talk about anything while dining without uttering the words, “Please! I’m eating.” But I thought I deserved some sort of gift certificate from the restaurant manager for having to listen to that while I ate my foie gras.

So I warn you now: I am about to discuss MY MEDICAL PROBLEMS. Those of you with a delicate constitution, might want to scroll down to the section titled Overheard In The Old Town Yesterday.

About three months ago, during my routine GYN appointment, my doctor commented that I have a white spot on my cervix. “Come back in three months,” said he. “And if it’s still there, I can remove it.”

In the office? I query.

Sure. The cervix has no nerve endings.

Yeah, right. I counter. You go first.

My information is purely anecdotal, but my research has indicated most women reply “HA!” when told that this particular procedure “won’t hurt a bit.”

I drive home from Vienna, doubled over and grossed out at the very thought.

Flash forward to Tuesday: my Follow Up Check Up or “control” as they say on this side of The Pond. Your Loyal Correspondent is staring at the ceiling in the good doctor’s office while he tsks and reports, “It’s still there.”

Big exhale. “Okay,” I say. “One, two, three, GO!”

“Your count or mine?” he asks.

“Yours.” I say. I grip the table, inhale and . . . snip.

Nothing. I feel nothing.

He snips again.

Still nothing. I am euphoric.

Two minutes later, I am composed, seated at his desk. His nurse has placed a glass of clear liquid there for me.

“Gin?” I am hopeful.

He and the nurse crack up. “Maybe we should start offering that?” they ask me.

Yes. Yes, you should. The adrenaline rush from the experience mandates a shot of something strong.

So we wait now to hear what The Lab says, and I go back in early September for another look.

But as if that wasn’t enough, while I was at the doctor’s office, I also got A Pregnancy Test.

Now, I am currently at that time of life (or as the English say “THE Time of My Life”) when things are, shall we say, unpredictable. Call this Too Much Information, but several years ago I had my tubes tied, and I tell you, Midge, life in the late 40s would be a Wild Roller Coaster Ride of Panic if I weren’t generally sure that pregnancy is not an issue.

It hasn’t happened often, but I have had some, shall we say, LONG spells. When I mention them, laughing nervously, to the doctor, he always sort of looks at his shoes and says, “Well, anything is possible.”

I don’t care much for THAT.

So when I mention that it truly is a miracle that we are even keeping this appointment here on what I fondly refer to as DAY 35, he says, “Let’s give you a test.”

So his lovely assistant, Claudia, hands me a cup. While we sort out the bill for the day’s events, we anxiously wait to see what color the stick will turn . . . Interestingly, given that I have had A Procedure (“See and Treat,” the doctor calls it) and A Test (“Pee and See,” The Spouse calls it), the price is the same as always. Hum the waiting theme from Jeopardy to yourself with me . . . Do, do do, do. Do, do, do . . .

Ladies and gentlemen, the results are in and I’m NOT!

Collective sigh of relief. However, I did just buy a new and bigger car. So I can’t use my usual excuse, which is “I can’t have more kids! I’d need a bigger car!”

Overheard In The Old Town Yesterday
I’m walking towards The Spouse’s office at lunch time, and I notice a lot of American English being spoken. At the corner by the old Max Mara shop (you have to be from Bratislava to get this reference, I know), I see an American guy, call him "Dude," talking on his cell phone.

Dude: “. . . Yeah, man, I’m in Bratislava!"
Friend on other end: . . .
Dude: “SLOVAKIA”
Friend on other end: . . .
Dude: “Not much. This place is a real shit hole.
Me: [laughing and unable to catch his eye]

In Which I Can’t Stop Laughing

That which every parent fears most happened to us today. We got walked in on.

I know, I know. Lock the bedroom door, I hear you say. But our bedroom door slides. It can’t be locked. We have always had a If the Door Is Closed Please Knock Policy, but we usually reminded everyone about said policy and the need for a serious problem (i.e. blood) as we started their DVD and scampered upstairs. Yeah, I know: excellent parenting.

Our former house had locking doors. And only once did someone knock “during.”

“Is there blood?” We began the screening process..

“Yes,” a little voice quavered. “My tooth came out . . .”

Okay, fair enough. Blood trumps nookie.

Today was a Saturday morning, and the children had gone out to the park. We shut the door and thought we were good to go, when, at a very lovely and inconvenient moment, the Spouse looked up to discover we were not alone.

I’ll spare you the details. Thankfully the activities were about as traditional and boring as possible. Legal in all 50 states. There were clothes. No food, battery-operated toys, French maid costumes, handcuffs, or animals.

Nevertheless, the discovery was startling to all. There was shouting. Pillows were thrown. Skittles just stood there, paralyzed and unable, at first, to move. Finally she fled.

We recovered our dignity. I went downstairs to ascertain exactly how scarred Skittles might be. Fairly scarred, as it turns out. She was inside her wardrobe.

I explained that we shouted because she startled us, reviewed The Policy, asked if she had any questions, and hugged her a lot.

Then we went in to see if Baboo was okay.

Baboo was lying on her bed, reading a book. I asked her if she heard the shouting.

“Yeah,” she said sagely. She put her book down. “I wondered what you were doing to make you so mad. Then I thought, ‘Ooooh, I know!’”

“So, what was it?” I pushed a little.

Baboo just picked up her book and grinned.

The Spouse relayed a story a college roommate told about a similar experience. The roommate said of his father, a respected judge, “I’d never seen him move so fast.” The Spouse wonders if he meant before the judge realized he had company or after.

So the good news is that they have parents who still do it. And maybe now they have more respect for a closed door.

Let me close with the following bit from That 70s Show:

Laurie Forman: Oh, for God's sake! Eric saw you guys doing it!
Kitty Forman: Oh, honey. You saw your father and I having inter...
Eric: [shocked] Mom!
Kitty Forman: Red, say something to the boy.
Red Forman: It's more fun than it looks.

In Which I Am Vexed

Oh, the evils of alcohol. It all comes down to that, in some sort of perverse karmic justice, I am sure. I was snarky about the passing of Rev. Falwell, and, lo! What befell me.

Last night was an Italian wine tasting. It was a very nice affair at my friends’ restaurant. It was nice because we tasted four whites and five reds from Sicily and Sardina, presented by a young, but very enthusiastic sommelier. It was nice because we had, being my friends’ restaurant, better than average nibbles to fill our stomachs and keep us from feeling too loopy. It was nice because after the whites, they served us a spring risotto and after the reds they served us a wonderful chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce. It was a hit.

The wines, while interesting, were not necessarily remarkable and certainly not at the prices they gave us (which was still wholesale). I went hoping to find some frisky, young white I could buy a case of to see me through the end of spring, but nothing doing.

I sat at a table of French people, and that was remarkable because I could hear and compare their thoughts with the comments from the largely Anglo table behind me. The French discussed where the wines hit their tongues, where were the tannins, how did this make their mouths feel. Oh, this is an interesting wine, they would say, but I cannot think what food to pair it with. They buried their noses deep into their glasses and smelled deeply before beginning to taste. They never finished an entire serving (and these were not big servings. I finished most of mine.). The food was definitely the high point for them.

Compare this with the table behind me, which was largely more enthusiastic. I heard happy voices, much laughter, and generally very positive remarks. It was not that the Anglos were naive or the French cynical: it was just different.

So I left, having ordered nothing, and made my way home. Since I had not scored any new whites, I sent a text message to my local wine pusher, Mr. Pavuk (that’s Slovak for spider), asking if his shop opened at 9:00 or 10:00. I went to bed and read for a while and woke this morning having made a mental game plan for the day, which did not include a visit to Mr. Spider’s since, frankly, I forgot. Blame the wine; blame the rushed morning sans Spouse. I forgot all about it until I received a reply from Mr. Spider saying that, yes, indeed the shop opens at 9:00, and he would be there until 1:00 if I wanted to stop by.

It is always best to time one’s visits with Mr. Spider’s presence in the shop as this affords the Friend of Mr. Spider with a ten percent discount. I rearrange my game plan: I will pop out to the Tesco closest to the French school first and buy butter, tissues, liquid hand soap, and sugar, fill the tank, and then head out to Pezinok, the village where Mr. Spider’s shop is. It’s not far, but it is two villages outside Bratislava.

But curses! I arrive at the Tesco, only to find it is “closed for technical difficulties.” No power or something. Drat. But I gas up the car and battle early morning traffic again to head to the other side of town and on to Pezinok. I stop at a Tesco in Pezinok (since it is not yet 9:00) and buy fabric softener, liquid hand soap, toilet paper, sugar, and Diet Coke.

Now Pavuk’s shop is open, so I park in the public lot (in front of the city police station) and pop in, but he has been delayed. His capable assistant, although she speaks no English, helps me make my purchases and tells me he was on his way and would I wait as he wanted to say hello.

So I take my box of wine to the car, only to discover that some (and here I cannot begin to find the word strong enough to describe my vexation) has parked, illegally, blocking my car. I cannot back out. If the car in front of me should leave, I could pull through that space and escape. But I’m trapped for the moment, which may be a long moment as the Jerk Car, a Velveeta Cardboard Cheesebox of Shit Car that no one would want to steal, has a club on the steering wheel.

But never mind. Mr. Spider has arrived. We discuss the Italian wines, wine marketing strategies in Slovakia, and make gentle fun of the French. I explain my car dilemma, and he follows me out to the street to see that, yes, it is still blocked. He kindly goes into the police station, but nothing comes of it. Another woman, also blocked by another Jerk Car (but this one announces its temporal nature with flashing four-ways), splutters about the “arrogance!” of the Jerk Drivers. Mr. Spider, unable to help either of us, says to me, “Let’s get a coffee!”

So we do, and a fine coffee it was. We discuss vacations, children, and spouses, when, now 45 minutes later, I decide to let him go back to work.

But my car is still blocked. He stands around with me for a bit, but I tell him to go to work as his standing there with me is not going to help anything. I am wearing shorts and the day is chilly (60F/13C), so I decide to sit in the car, but grumble to myself for forgetting to bring a book along today.

“If you get too cold, come back to the shop,” Mr. Spider cheerily offers as he leaves.

I begin to think I might have to return to the shop and ask about a toilet. The coffee, the cold, and my despondency have conspired, and I find myself increasingly uncomfortable. Passersby begin to acknowledge my plight. One man tries to push Jerk Car forward, but to no avail. A cop comes by and asks me how long I’ve been trapped like this. By now it is over an hour. He disappears, but before long, two new officers materialize and begin to discuss between them the situation. There are two offending cars (Arrogant Flashing Four Ways has left), parked illegally in the street, although only my Jerk Car is blocking legally parked cars.

“Tow truck,” I begin to chant to myself. “Get a flippin’ tow truck!”

But they return with boots for the cars, a camera, and forms. They boot the cars, document their positions in the street, and stick the citations on their windows.

Okay, justice is eminent, but will only delay my escape, as Jerk Guy will have to go into the police station and atone for his sins before they will unboot him and allow me to get out of here.

Another 40 minutes pass when, lo and behold, Jerk Guy returns. Before I can tackle him, he pulls off the citation and disappears into the police station. I get out, and stand, shivering, against the trunk of my car, arms folded, looking over the tops of my eyeglasses, prepared to shame him when he returns.

I regret to say that I did not get to spew venom, nor even scream therapeutically at Jerk Guy. When he returned to his car, officer with boot key in tow, he appeared to have already heard about my inconvenience while inside the police station for he looks appropriately contrite.

“Pardon,” he says.

“Hmph,” say I.

In Slovak he asks, “Has it been long?”

“TWO hours,” I reply, in English, glaring over my glasses.

“Pardon,” he repeats, meekly.

I hmphed again and got into my car.

So now I am home, rushing to catch up on the chores I had planned for today, all because of the evils of drink. Hmph.

What I'm Reading:
Finished Heat, which did more than talk about Mario Batali. I recommend it.
Now back on my bullfighing obsession and reading Spain by the Horns by Tim Elliot. I could have written this one and wish I had. Will probably continue with Ritual and Sacrifice in the Corrida: The Saga of César Rincón by Allen Josephs next.

Amusing Kid Stuff:
Girls have been singing French song that translates as follows:
A regiment of fromage blanc (I don't know what to call it other than fromage blanc)
Declared a war on the Camembert.
The Port Salut didn't want to do it
Because the Roquefort was too strong!
ENCORE PLUS FORT!

Vive le France.

United Nations Weekend: Spanish/Austrian/British/French/English?

We had an international weekend starting with Spanish Dinner on Friday night. As always, we were in a noisy restaurant, which made it very difficult for me to hear Spanish Husband who is a bit of a quiet talker anyhow. Once when I said, "Huh?" he said "I thought we were speaking Spanish tonight." We WERE speaking Spanish when we could hear it! I did much better when Spanish Wife and I retired to the bar to smoke and drink coffee and discuss the ongoing battle with our recalcitrant facial hair. I was more relaxed and had vocabulary at hand to comment on things like my "bigote y barba.”

Saturday I went provisioning in Austria with my English friends. We went first to get fresh asparagus at an asparagus farm that I thought was not so far away, but when we got off the highway we wandered through village after village until I was not even sure where we were anymore. I was surreptitiously checking my little purse-sized map book, but it only has a tiny bit of Burgenland, Austria on it and we were off that part. I was starting to see signs for Hungary. Finally we drove into a village that had streets lined with buckeye trees (horse chestnuts to the Europeans), but in this village half of the trees had pink blooms instead of white ones. In fact, on the main street, one side of the street was lined with buckeye trees with white flowers and the other side was lined with buckeye trees with pink flowers. I've never seen anything like it. it was really lovely.

We parked in a little square next to the typical town clock tower with the typical stork nest on top (complete with the typical stork). And then we bought asparagus. Most of these little Austrian village houses come right up to the sidewalk with no front garden, and you can't see anything in or behind them because the houses all connect with one another. But when they open the big, wooden doors, then you walk into a courtyard, usually, or even a farm yard sometimes. This place had a lovely, long garden with a fish pond and blooming things, and at the end of the house was the asparagus showroom (complete with a cooler case exhibiting the various grades of asparagus) and a china cabinet with all sorts of dishes in an asparagus theme: a tea pot, a Hollandaise saucier, serving platters, etc) and asparagus factory, complete with owner's wife, sorting, weighing, and bundling bunches of asparagus. In ten days or so the season will be over, and then they will be selling strawberries.

On the ride back from the asparagus vendor to lunch and then the grocery store, we listened to some hysterical P.G. Wodehouse stories about Blandings castle: one about a pumpkin and one, called "Pig-Hoo-o-o-o-ey" summarized, with thanks to Wikipedia, below:

Lord Emsworth, keen that his fat pig, the Empress of Blandings, should win the 87th annual Shropshire Agricultural Show, is distraught when his pigman, Wellbeloved, is sent to prison for fourteen days for being drunk and disorderly. The pig immediately goes off her feed, and with the vet baffled, Emsworth is in no state to listen to his sister Connie's bleatings about his niece Angela breaking off her engagement from Lord Heacham in favour of the quite unsuitable James Belford, who Emsworth himself always liked, being a friend of the lad's father, a local parson.

Emsworth, still distracted about his pig, is sent to London to have stern words with Belford; dining with him at the Senior Conservative Club, the conversation turns to pigs, and Belford, having spent two years on a Nebraska farm, proceeds to impress Emsworth with his knowledge of American pig-calls. He teaches Emsworth the master call, the "pig-hoo-o-o-o-ey" to which all pigs will respond, and Emsworth heads home happily.

Falling asleep on the train, Emsworth forgets the call, but while talking to Angela on the castle grounds, is reminded of it by the sound of Mrs Twemlow's gramophone. He, Beach and Angela all try the call on the Empress, but to no avail; just when all looks black, Belford arrives, shows them how the call should really sound, and to everyone's delight the Empress tucks heartily into her food. She goes on, of course, to win the contest.

It was a lot funnier than this sounds, of course. You should look it up and read it yourself, even though I have spoiled the ending for you. The plots may be silly and even dated, but the man has a most remarkable writing style: intelligent without being off-putting, charming, and hysterically funny. He makes me proud to be an English speaker and, at the same time, ashamed I don’t celebrate and utilize my native language more fully.

Saturday night was a French dinner at the home of a French client of the Spouse's. We thought it was just going to be the four of us, but it turned out to be a dinner party with another couple (and their children) and another French guy (his family had just gone home to France to attend a funeral). Baboo had a sleepover that night, so we could have brought Skittles as she knew these kids (they are children I especially like).

The Host Family had a funny small dog, of a breed I cannot identify . . . sort of a cross between a Chihuahua and a Spitz, but very cat-like in it's personality. A high point of the evening was when the dog presented to all of us at the table, an unidentifiable piece of lacy lingerie, which the Host Husband briskly removed, explaining, "Oh, yes, he just loves this . . ." I think it was a bra belonging to the teenage daughter, but I'm not sure.

A good portion of the evening conversation was lost on me, as I could understand concepts but not details. For example, there was, after the introduction of the dog (and before he began the lingerie show), a lengthy discussion about what I took to be the story of how they acquired the dog. There was a description of the breeder's place (I think) and the word "chinchilla" and much explanation of how bad things smelled. But I don't know. Sometimes I tuned out because it was too hard to follow, only to tune in again just as Host Wife, a stylish, intelligent woman, was asking me something I about which I had no clue. For dinner, they split up the couples, so the Spouse was across the table, mentally wandering in his own elysian fields and of no help to me. I'm sure she wrote me off as a total idiot.

But she was an excellent cook and a remarkable provisioner. I don't know where she found, for example, the giant tiger prawns that accompanied the starter seafood salad. I also don't know where her husband learned to peel his giant tiger prawn with his knife and fork. I mangled mine with my bare hands, mostly because I was so distracted by his surgical skill. It was incredible.

My biggest mistake of the evening, however, was offering to be the designated driver. I did this forgetting that we were going to the home of a French family and that the wines offered were likely to be diverse and excellent. And they were.

We started with champagne, of course, and I did have a small glass of that because, well, it was French champagne. There were two white wines with dinner (I had a swallow of each and they were crisp, complex, and bone dry . . . stupid, stupid, STUPID me) and the offering of a red with cheese course (of course, there was cheese course!). Alas. I drank lots and lots of water and drooled quietly into my napkin.

I conclude after weekends like this one that I never had any level of expertise in any foreign language and whatever small skills I gained in, say, French or Spanish over the years is inevitably atrophied through lack of proper use and diligent practice. I had to ask about so many details after the Spanish and French encounters, and listening to the Wodehouse stories merely reminded me house inferior my vocabulary and story-telling skills are compared to his. I’m amazed I can make myself understood to anyone.

NEW FEATURE!
Just Finished Reading: The Nasty Bits, Anthony Bourdain
Now Reading: Heat, Bill Buford

FUNNY KID ANECDOTE!
I was at the gym this morning and Baboo is at Classe Verte with her school. Skittles was trawling the bedroom, bored, while the Spouse worked on the computer (it's VE Day today). She a good reader suddenly, but also enjoys spelling words she doesn't know.

Skittles (reading off the cover of a new book of mine): What's M-E-N-O-P-A-U-S-E spell?
Spouse: Menopause.
Skittles: What's that?
Spouse: When a woman's periods stop.
Skittles: WHAT periods?
Spouse: Menstrual periods.
Skittles: What's a menstrual period?
Spouse: Ask your mother. You wanna play [insert name of on-line computer game here]?
Skittles: I can't ask her!

I DON’T DO GROUPS

The school holidays are over: life is back to normal. Today, while driving back from dropping everyone off at school and office, I was looking at the reflection of my headlights in the back end of the car in front of me. They seemed . . . dim.

Shit. I could stop at the car dealer and mime how my lights appear to be kaput and for a few dollars the kind fellows in the Service Center would replace them for me. But I hate asking for help. I always have.

So I went home and checked in the basement and the garage for the lightbulb kits I bought in the past year or so, hoping I had in them the bulbs I need today. Long story short, I end up bent over and head buried inside the front end of my car, cursing, scraping my knuckles with black dust, glasses sliding down my nose and interfering with my ability to see.

My neighbor, the comely if slutty (according to Pani Babka) Sylvia emerges from her front door with her mom.

“You’re so brave!” she exclaims, although clearly skeptical of my ability to solve what is, to her, a man’s problem.

I pant as I struggle to fit the damn bulb back into its housing, “It’s just a matter of having the parts.” My legs are cramping from this odd position of standing, wedged, against the dirty car bumper.

Parts, indeed. I can see her thinking the Y chromosome might be the necessary part, but she and her mom gamely wish me well and head off.

I finally wrestle that bad boy into place and am about to stand back, victorious, when a shadow crosses my workspace. I jump, startled, but it is only the local policeman, a beatcop, as it were, who is curiously looking in to see if I need help. Mental note: Home Depot is not the place to find men in Slovakia as it was clearly in Miami. Here, should I ever find myself single, I will merely open the hood of my car, bend over, and wait for the men, or at least neighbors, to swarm. No, I thank him, I’m sorted. All is well.

I wonder about the Slovak view on sex roles, given the raised eyebrows here and the eagerness of the kind police officer to help. I have recently been shocked by sexist remarks by a man who sits on a committee with me (and other women). Okay, I am the least professional (now) of all the women there. But I have been professional. And I think I present myself professionally. But this guy, let’s call him Mr. Neanderthal, had the nerve to tell me that

1.) the new manager of Prestigious Bratislava Hotel could not possibly be as good as her predecessor since she is a woman and he was a man (and it turns out she is kicking butt and taking names . . . predecessor was sweet and charming, but she is GOOD) and

2.) the men on the committee needed to meet privately as women can’t possibly do any of the real work (interesting since the lion’s share of the committee work to date has been done by people other than Mr. N. and more of them women than men).

Honestly. My value and ability haven’t been judged based solely on my possession of ovaries since, oh, 7th grade? But I digress.

The whole car light bulb incident brings to mind a day last summer in Ohio when, driving my mother’s geriatric Volvo, the front bumper fell off in a north Bexley neighborhood. I had the girls with me, was wearing my own slutty favorite summer dress, but enterprisingly found a picnic blanket in the trunk, and laid it on the hot asphalt of the Qwik-i-Mart parking lot so I could lie on my back, knees together, under the car to assess the damage. My mother, arriving to rescue me, was thrilled at her heroic and self-sufficient daughter. I was pretty proud of myself, too. But I couldn’t help wondering today: should I be less reluctant to ask for help sometimes?

I have always despised group projects in school. My longtime scholarly friend, Dr. W, regularly assigns group projects to her college juniors as she feels it prepares them for the realities of the workplace. I implore her not to do it. “I loathe group projects!” I whine to her. “The others might be idiots. I end up doing all the work or being punished for some slacker in the group dragging us all down.” In the workplace I might have recourse: I could have the slacker fired or refuse to work with the offender in the future.

Further, I like spending time alone. While the girls were off school, I enjoyed the time with them, but nevertheless I did find myself getting a bit cranky after a week or so. I need time alone. I enjoy time alone. Returning to our regular school and work schedule means I can spend a good part of the day by myself, which I apparently need.

I never liked team sports. I want to live and die by my own hand. I ran track in high school (badly) because while it is arguably a team sport, I was responsible for my own event. I like dressage, tennis, the bike, swimming. Sports where I can measure my progress against myself.

I joke that I could never have group sex. “I don’t do groups,” I proclaim because I am convinced I would get shoved out of the collective bed and end up in the kitchen making sandwiches for the remaining participants, those working up or slaking an appetite without me.

I didn’t even let anyone help me plan and arrange my own wedding. There was no reason to take on all the responsibility myself. Yes, I had a matron of honor, but I felt asking her to come up to Columbus early was an imposition. I spent this most-memorable day all alone, eschewing girlfriends and family to have my nails lacquered alone, my hair done alone, lunch alone . . . I finally collected a friend at the bus station and had an early dinner with him, but otherwise spent the entire day alone. It never occurred to me to ask anyone else to help, to see it as inviting them to spend a special time with me. Now I think how stupid it was, as I certainly felt lonely all day.

That said, I am a social person. I like people. I have friends. I enjoy the social lunch, the girls' night out, the chatty coffee. The Spouse, more reclusive than I, asserts that we, as a couple, would have no friends at all if it weren’t for me.

And I have had fabulous group experiences. The high school play, to start with. A job I had in college, where a team of us helped the incoming freshmen prepare for their first semester, while reassuring their parents that the investment they were about to make in this university was sound. The English-language immersion program I participated in last November. The collective energy. Everyone playing his or her special role. I like being the specialist, the in-house expert in whatever.

The bike ride we took on Sunday was enhanced by the presence of the Spouse and the other fellow. I have ridden significant enough distances alone, and it’s fine, but having two other people along was a totally different experience: it turned a pleasant ride into a delightful one.

So my conclusion? Not sure I really have any. I guess I learned a little something about myself, or, at least, was reminded today of the incongruous co-existence of my hermit-like and social-butterfly behaviors. So where does this Jekyll and Hyde quality come from? Is it the rugged individualism of the lone mountain goat Capricorn or the stoic Protestantism of my Finnish ancestors?

Let me close with a bit of family legacy. My Finnish grandmother always told my mother, "Learn to drink coffee so that when you go to someone's house, they can offer you something." But there was a caveat: "Learn to drink it black, so you won't be any trouble."

I am certainly too indulgent to drink my coffee black unless I'm forced to. Maybe I really do enjoy going it alone sometimes.