I Complain Multitudes

It’s easy for me to go Whitmanesque with worry. There’s my penchant to turn suddenly Christian Scientist when it comes to my own health (“that rash on my toe doesn’t itch or hurt and hasn’t grown—what good is going to the doctor?”), which mostly stems from the belief diagnosis can only be bad. (Actually, I did finally go to the dermatologist for the toe rash, only for him to crinkle his nose as if to say, “This won’t kill you. I’ve got melanoma patients to treat. Get serious.”)

When the greyhounds act under the weather (and we live where the weather is more or less perfect), I feel ill, too, which is kind of a blessing, for at least I can vocalize what’s wrong. I mean there’s nothing as depressing as a dog full of life force like Nigel acting down in the dumps and you can't figure out why. At least I can discuss my pain, whether psychical or physical.

Today I lament for my car, which will start, but dies when I take my foot from the gas. It’s as if the car is tempting me with a non-stop life. Instead of living as if red lights were suggestions, which is the way the world seems to be going anyway, I opted to have the car towed to my garage. And now I sit a-fretting. I know nothing about cars, or how things work in general, having inherited none of my dad’s engineering acumen (or I turned my back on such skills when I rejected his politics, etc., as if it all came bundled like car accessories that the dealers make you buy in too large gulps). When I open the hood of a car I’m equally nonplussed by finding an engine, a wheel powered by hamsters, or a glowing green ball of magic energy. Oh, to be plussed by mechanics.

So despite having gone agnostic about a super-power above, I must believe in a god named Tim at SwedeMasters.