January 6, 2000
Lately I've been feeling like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, except that my recurring day involves a copier that worked yesterday but doesn't this morning. And instead of Andie McDowell I get a visit from Bruce the tech guy every day. I had such hope that it would be different this time, but none of the tweaking he's tried has lasted more than a day. He's now convinced that the main board needs replacing, and he'll be delivering a loaner machine until the new board arrives.
The other thing I've been waking up to every morning has been a sore throat. At least that plot element was written out of today's screenplay.
But how do people know that I'm feeling better? Why is that on the first day I feel energized enough to get some real work done, the phone rings all day, derailing my train of thought every time I get up some steam. Wrong numbers. Insurance companies, wanting to show how they can help me. Market surveys that will take up just a few minutes of my time. Can I find this file? Do I remember that invoice? Whatever happened to Baby Jane? Where have all the flowers gone? Why do fools fall in love?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind.
One way I could tell I was feeling better was that I found it necessary to shout instructions to the other drivers on the road tonight. By the time I had made my rounds and headed home, my shouts were getting fainter and hoarser, but still, this is some kind of recovery milestone, isn't it? I don't think I'm quite ready to jet over to Grozny and join the Chechen resistance yet, however.