Of Guillotines and Pinkie Fingers

What you don't know will hurt your

Good news since last we spoke. The zombie pinkie finger and its companion have come back to full life. Tragedy averted.

The bad news, according to my orthopedist last Friday—the condition that led to their sudden sleep-like condition comes from an age-related degeneration of the cervical spine called spondylosis.

To boot, my posture at the computer has brought on the disappearance of the first inward curvature of the spine, called a lordosis. My cervical spine no longer curves where it should. It is a straight line.

The upshot: I must stop leaning my head over my keyboard. I must improve my posture. I will write these two sentences 100 times on the blackboard.

This (mis) adventure has confirmed my suspicion that if you worry about something sufficiently, it will never happen. On the other hand, if you don’t worry about something at all, or you don’t know enough about something to worry about it at all (e.g., spondylosis), you are asking for trouble. It will happen.

If that makes no sense to you, consider the following: Some things, like aging or death, will happen to you whether you worry about them or not. Between sudden death and aging, most of us would prefer aging. Thus, in my case (aging), things are not so bad. I am fine as I am. I can continue to worry about everything else.

In a less metaphysical vein, I have ordered more QR cards for the blog Third Place Cafe Stories. I first attempted this feat at the Office Depot in my neighborhood. They could print the cards, but I had to cut them myself. The blade of the paper cutter provided for this purpose was arrow straight. Every card, however, came out at a diagonal. (Was it just me? Go figure.)

The word for paper cutter in Spanish, by the way, is similar to the English word guillotine. They call it a guillotina.

I then tried another venue, an art supply store called Lumen, where I met Issac, a young printing enthusiast. He knew exactly what I needed. Even better, he knew how to help me save money. Fridays, 20% discount on all printing orders.

The bad news (there is always some bad news somewhere), I still had to cut the cards myself. Alternatively, they could charge me more than the actual cost of printing and cut the cards for me.

I made the only sensible choice, especially after Isaac told me about the high-power electric guillotine they have on hand. They even hire people called guillotine operators, all dedicated to making immaculate, straight, painless cuts on paper or cardboard.

I waited with high hopes for Friday. It hailed full-size marbles that bounced off the closed windows of the Uber I took on the way over to the Lumen. The driver and I were reveling in the Cranberries’ cover of the song “Go Your Own Way” when he dropped me off.

Isaac at the printing desk informed me that a leak in the roof over the electric guillotine makes its use impossible when it rains. Could I come back the next day?

The cards, the next day, looked so perfect I went back for another batch two weeks later, on another Friday. I ate a late lunch in an Indian/Bangladeshi restaurant across the street while the guillotine operators got to work. I coughed uncontrollably over a spicy dish of Dhal, until a young woman brought me a glass of water.

An older gentleman with a man bun and owl-like glasses addressed me in English. He lamented my lack of tolerance for spicy dishes. So did I. The sailing red and black wings of the sari of a Bollywood star floated over the video screens in the background, the woman wrapped in the arms of her lover, both balanced weightlessly on a small raft let loose over a pristine lake surrounded by dizzying cliffs.

The gentleman with the man bun invited me to check out an outdoor bazaar complete with live music the next day. Now if I were Elizabeth Gilbert in “Eat, Pray Love,” I could have finessed such an invitation. Uninterested in anything other than companionship in the “Pray” part of things in India, Julia Roberts as Elizabeth eventually tells her older companion goodbye with no misunderstandings—indeed with a long hug and tears in their eyes as they leave their Ashram.

I’ll spare you the details of what happens to me when I try anything remotely similar. I crossed the street again and picked up my cards.

So much for September’s (mis) adventures. Have a wonderful month.