The High Point of My Day

For a two- or three-hour period there yesterday, things were going to hell in a handbasket and there didn't seem to be much going on worth appreciating. At the beginning, it seemed like a chance to make a good thing happen, though. Earlier in the week, I had dislodged a gold onlay (if a filling extends over the edge of the tooth into the side part, it's an onlay) and needed it recemented back into my head. I called about the onlay, and they said to come on in. Just before I left, though, they called back—they'd had a cancellation, and if I could make it in earlier they could do the recementing and also take care of a cleaning that was scheduled for later in the week. Two birds, one stone! Yay! I hastily began shutting down computers, pulling on socks, preparing the cabin for departure, you might say. Efficiency, that's me! So I get in the car and slam the door, and eventually I'm about two-thirds of the way through the 40-minute trip to the dentist's when I slap my head and start to empurple the air with curses—despite numerous self-reminders I'd *forgotten the god-damned onlay.* I don't know about other people, but I can picture objects very vividly when I've forgotten them at home and need them badly. I'd stowed the onlay on a shelf in the medicine cabinet, in a little clear space where it could easily be seen, and I could picture it sitting there in its gleaming gold solidity.

So back I go, my visions of efficient task-completion flying into pieces and falling in fiery chunks out of the sky. I'm now in a controlled frenzy, hoping to at least get the onlay replaced, and not be charged for missing an appointment completely. I jog into the house, figuring to grab a PDA and get the phone number for the dentist without having to start a computer. I search everywhere for the little-used PDA, and finally find it—batteries dead. Damn! I look for the cell phone, which I don't use all that much, and find its battery was dead too, and in the course of my dashing around I clumsily step on the cat's food dish. Since the dish is centered in a shallow dish of water to keep the ants away during the summer, I manage to dump a soggy double handful of cat food onto my office rug. Damn damn damn!

So. I take a deep breath. I get on my hands and knees like a penitent and scoop up the cat food. I take it to the bathroom and flush it, so that the ants won't get it, the way a retreating army will blow up an ammunition dump before it abandons a fort. And then it happens—the cat food starts swirling around, and for a moment, as it sinks toward oblivion, it forms a dark funnel, like a tornado, curving down into the depths. It had that same fascination big tornadoes have, that sinuously sinister, menacingly seductive sway. I imagine Mata Hari's dancing would have been similar—you'd know she meant you no good, but you couldn't help but look. It was just that moment, but for the briefest flash I said to myself, "Huh—that's kind of cool."

At any rate, things started going better. I got to the dentist's and he glued the onlay back in. No cleaning, that'll have to be later in the week after all. But at least I'd managed to retain my capacity to appreciate the little things on the fly, in the midst of managing one of life's little daily disasters. You don't actually want to pick up soggy cat food and throw it away—the original plan was that the food would nourish the cat, and it would have been better if that goal had been achieved. But if the fates decreed that I had to pick up wet cat food in my hands yesterday and dump it down the toilet, well, at least I was capable of appreciating it. That has to count for something.