2002-02-20|5:03 p.m.
My job is a dangerous one. Everywhere is the threat of a large, painful, untreatable paper cut. Yes, I know. This is not land mine clean up or spelunking deep into ominous ocean caves. However, I tempt you dear reader to think of paper, paper, everywhere. The work of a bookkeeper is perilous. One swift pull of paper in a steady hardworking move could end up in blood. Even worse is if one of those cuts lands upon the crease of a joint in your hand. Open and close and open and close the cut goes. I hate getting these.
My long weekend:
A and I went camping. Just a tent, his car, a few pots and pans, food, fire, Joshua trees, and us out there. Strangely, I had a wonderful time despite the trip to the hospital, the wind, and being forced by nature to go home early. A got sick the first night while trying to sleep in our tent. His stomach area began hurting worse than it ever had in his life and not even antacids could help. So, I assured him that I would not be upset if he felt he needed to go to the emergency room. So, we went. We checked in and an hour later we were still in the waiting room. This is when A decides to press hard on his chest and instantly he is relieved. So, we leave. The next day we wake to find that the wind is cursing through our camping area. We cook breakfast despite this, having to hold down everything. After filling our bellies we retire back to the tent to play cards hoping that it will get warmer than 50 degrees (and wind chill) to climb rocks. It never does and then it looks very possible that it is going to rain. We leave.
It sounds like a disaster. It was. But that is what is so pleasing about it. I busied myself with building fires and cooking and setting up camp. These things pushed long lodged anxieties far away.
Word of the Day: gamut- expression of measurement/ range and scale