I suppose I could meditate on my shortcomings, or alternatively on my longcomings, which sound suspiciously like every airplane journey I've undertaken. I could take stock, restock, make stock, whatever it is you are supposed to do upon milestone birthdays of this nature. I could contemplate the big questions: Why am I here? Where am I going? Where have I been?
I select option X: Beating a hasty retreat. For the next 24 hours, instead of answering horrifically introspective interrogations only a mother could love, I will answer concrete, small-scale, docile questions of the sort that appear on mental status exams for the doddering.
First up: What's in my purse?
(This question reminds me, unfortunately and forcefully, of a small, grating song called What's in the Bag I composed for the singular purpose of arousing curiosity in two-year-olds. What's in the Bag,in case you were wondering, features repeated yodeling of the titular line accompanied by the agitation of a paper sack.)
What's in my purse is a nonthreatening yet mildly revelatory question to which I can supply a concrete answer:
- Directions to Charlottesville
- MTA Metrocard
- MTA Metrocard Single Ride ticket
- Lutenist's address and phone number
- Bassoon player's phone number
- Address of dermatological resident
- 84 NE Regional train arrival table
- Cheap sunglasses
- Wallet & contents
- 2 gold dollars featuring John Quincy Adams
- Bank statement