Socks

September 13, 2006

Morningstar commented, "You need to spend a little time outside of New York right now, Jamie."

Whether she’s trying to give me helpful advice or is simply getting sick of reading repetitive blog posts, she couldn't be more right. Summer's over, and aside from a day trip or two and a single overnight visit with my parents, I spent the entire summer right here in the big city of dreams — no whirlwind European adventures, no Canadian road trips, and no African safaris.

It's my own fault since I blew what could've been a comfortable travel budget on my Triumph. Not that I regret it, but there's no denying the motorcycle is, if not a money pit, at least a small dimple. Both tinkering and riding are enjoyable escapes, of course, and without the bike, even the day trips I managed this summer wouldn't have happened. Still, there's really no substitute for heading out of town for a week or two.

Maybe this winter.

It's the classic freelance complaint: you either have time or money. Rarely both. But I can't spend this much time nonstop in New York without getting cramped and nearsighted—literally.

Deborah was doing the crossword puzzle while we waited for our dinner at the bar. She asked me for help, but I was cross-eyed from working at the computer all day and couldn't read the clues in the dim candlelight.

"An Everest guide," she said, as I rubbed the muscles in my stiff shoulder and absentmindedly stretched my cramped wrist.

"Sherpa," I said.

"What?"

"Sherpa. S-H-E-R-P-A. You know, those Tibetan guys in Nepal who haul all the equipment up Mount Everest so that the rich guys who hire them can blog from base camp about their adventure."

Deborah wrote the word down, then slid the puzzle toward me and asked me to answer a few more.

"Seriously, I can't read a thing in this light, and it gives me a headache to even try."

She shrugged and put the scrap of newspaper into her purse.

"Wanna look at your new socks?" she asked. She bought me a six-pack of socks earlier that day from an Army-Navy store and pulled them partway out of her bag. "They're nice, right?"

I reached over and squeezed the toe of a heavy-duty cotton sock, nodding in response. “They are.”

"It's a big deal, you know," she said, stuffing them back into her purse. "Me buying you socks is a major step in our relationship."

I laughed.

"I'm serious," she said. "It really is."