the ceiling fan

21 06 2007

I have this irrational fear that when I take my shirt off in my room, my arms are going to hit the ceiling fan.  If I stand on my flat feet and extend my hands up as far as I can reach, I’m still a couple inches short.  Yet every single time I take off my shirt, I have a little worry that I’ll hit the fan.

I’m less than a week away from Dubai.  My suitcases are mostly packed.  They’re old suitcases, not new lightweight ones.  One is leather, at least it looks like leather.  The other is a Samsonite case, probably from some time in the seventies.  I thought about buying new luggage.  I just couldn’t justify the cost for the one trip.  I assume I can always buy it later if I need it.

I’ve found that I enjoy sending postcards more than I like receiving them.  I’ve also found that I like giving gifts more than I like receiving them.  It’s odd, because I still like getting postcards and gifts.  But I find that I have a little bit of joy when I give them.

Sometimes I forget that “i’m a fan of postcards” is here.  I see the link to my Dashboard every day and I think about how I’d like to write something.  But the moment quickly passes.  I wish I could write like C.S. Lewis or Andy Rooney.  Perhaps a blend of the two.








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