It won’t come as a surprise to learn that I’m not comfortable dancing. That’s exactly why last year, for my wife’s birthday, I signed us up for dance classes. The gift was not me learning to dance, it was my willingness to put up with the humiliation of taking dance classes.
There I was, in a crowded 4 train on my commute to work in the Financial District, reading another horrifying story about the ravages of neoliberalism, when something caught my eye.
As I do most nights (and as she described in this lovely article), I was reading to my wife in bed. This time, it was a very strange story about a community of people who believe a ’90s children’s movie starring Sinbad has disappeared, possibly due to a crossover with other dimensions, a glitch in the computer simulation we’re all living in, or simply a conspiracy (read it yourself, it’s amazing). Then the doorbell rang.
I was recently reading Hugh Honour’s Neo-Classicism (part of Penguin’s excellent Style and Civilization series from the ’60s and ’70s) and not enjoying it very much. The book is fine, but the topic was less than scintillating. I guess it depends on your tolerance for sentimental art about civic duty. Then I was jolted awake by a short passage in the epilogue:
Sabine: The kitchen sink is leaking, can you call someone to fix it?
Me: I’d like to try to fix it myself.
Sabine: How would you do it?
Me: I’d twist the thingie.
Sabine: Won’t you need tools?
Me: I can use our [makes ambiguous gestures with hands].
Sabine: I think you better call someone.
Me: I think I better call someone.