During today’s lunch break, I wandered around the West Village, my phone shoved between my ear and shoulder, my empty cold hand holding onto my insurance card. The woman on the other end asked for my ID and I read the ten numbers out, asked a few questions, listened to her answer, tried to figure out if I knew what she was talking about. Because normal people make these calls while walking along the sidewalk in 30ish degree weather. But—the whole insurance thing is new to me, and figuring out claims and all that. You know: something normal people actually do.
It brought to mind two things, which just about summarize my equal love for brows both high and low.
Firstly, on the insurance bit: the one time I genuinely laughed while watching ‘My Idiot Brother’ was when he said something like, “I don’t think I have insurance. Wait, do I?” And then also, everything related to April and Andy’s storyline on last week’s episode of Parks & Rec. “No, we uh, we have the free money card.”
Secondly, on the ‘things normal people do’ bit: this poem, “What the Living Do” by my former professor, Marie Howe. I think about it more often than is probably healthy. You can read it over there, at that link, but for my own benefit, here are some lines:
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
Anyway. Insurance insurance uninteresting. I shouldn’t post this.
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