The Plot and the Gravy

When things get lumpy

When last I wrote, my zombie pinkie finger had buzzed back to life. We all got somewhat distracted by a certain event in the United States on November 5. I mentioned my suspicion that if you worry about something sufficiently, it will never happen. But if you don’t, you’re asking for trouble.

I finally stopped worrying about my pinkie finger. My doctor sent me to physical therapy to delay any other effects of the age-related degeneration of my cervical spine called spondylosis. I dutifully did my exercises, targeting the neck and spine. I also started this amazing masterclass with novelist and writing coach Peter Mountford to hone my personal essay writing skills.

Those of you who know me personally also know I’ve always combined writing and dancing in my free time. Now I’m retired from my office job, writing predominates. Suffice it to say I’m here at my home office typing away as if I still had to show up at the office. Not a bad strategy. As long as pinkie finger and company remain functional.

Here’s where the plot gets lumpy. Among all the things I thought I might accomplish this fall, I somehow believed I could perform in a little show my dance teacher said he’d put together at his studio. I was rehearsing, pressing hard into the floor in my heels when Bam! Into the floor I went myself, knees first. It seems I’d stomped on the hem of my flowy-showy dance pants.

Nothing broken, nothing shattered. Most importantly, my pinkie finger remains intact.

However, my orthopedist would not let me get away without an X-ray of my left knee, source of aches and pains for many years. There is no more space, she says, between the kneecap and the rest of the knee. This causes friction. She can perform some minor surgery next year to remedy the issue, thereby prolonging the knee’s lifespan.

What did I tell you about the failure to worry as the source of all evil? At least I know I’m right.

Here is more evidence for the wisdom of my attitude. I was invited to a poetry reading in a new venue in Mexico City’s Chapultepec Park by my good friend and former colleague, the poet Armando González Torres. My main objective was to dress warmly enough to avoid catching the flu (cold rushes in with the evening here in Mexico City, something I sometimes forget).

What happened? I never found the venue in the first place. I was on the wrong side of Chapultepec Park. After a certain hour, they close the gates to the horizontal pathways across the park. No walk in the park for you, they said. Go home and stew about it. I should have worried about getting there, and then maybe I would have gotten there.

It’s on to “Dramatic Tension and Plot” this week in Peter Mountford’s Essay Masterclass. Can’t wait.

Here’s the link to the blog Third Place Cafe Stories. Next up: “Patience and Bureaucracy.”