We’re fine. Really.
This morning I left my cell phone on my bedside table. I never do that.
On the way to have another core biopsy, on the right side this time, I tried to swipe my debit card at the subway turnstile. If you know anything about New York, you know it doesn’t work that way.
In the MRI dressing room, I couldn’t make the key work. Not rocket science. The nurse had to help me.
I wouldn’t stop talking during the procedure. The radiologist had to tell me to stop blabbing so that he could concentrate. He said it in a nicer way, but that’s what he meant.
Pete took a taxi down to meet me afterward. Taking a Valium makes me feel like I’ve just had 8 glasses of wine, and I’m not fit to navigate the subway home. Pete was a little late, so he took a cab and gave the taxi driver a $100 bill. He thought it was a $10 bill, and asked for $4 change. (We don’t usually carry hundreds around.) The taxi driver didn’t object, and didn’t give Pete a receipt. (The receipt would make it possible for Pete to track the driver by his medallion number and complain to city authorities.)
When we got home, neither one of us could remember where we had parked the car. We had a moment of panic, then realized it was right in front of our building.
We’re fine. Really?