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Not even in the top hundred

Five years ago, I was jogging down Route 9, a block from where it split East to West Market Street, a course of exercise I undertook a few times a week, weather permitting. A thin man with dark, short hair walked toward me, caught my eye, and glared. I thought I'd seen him in some UFO context, either the Pine Bush UFO Fair or a talk at the now-defunct Enchanted Cafe, a coffeehouse that regularly held such events.

The man seemed particularly angry at me, and I couldn't parse why. I am such a tangential and innocuous speaker and author on the subject. A believer could be put off that I do not take it utterly seriously, but I am keen, knowledgable, and delighted; there are better targets for ire.

My house!

I came home to a letter taped to my door. I saw the same envelopes on my neighbors'. It didn't take a great stretch to know this was either a notice that the owners sold the development and we would have to pay someone else going forward or a rent increase. The last time we had dealt with the latter, the managers wanted to turn the slick mud and broken concrete of the driveway into something made of pavement that would be feasible to drive up, so perhaps we are due.

It is the rent hike, though they give no reason other than they wish to. There is a matter of political expediency, that the increased housing prices under Trump coupled with the lingering effect of COVID afflicting local real estate with fleeing cidiots means they can charge what they wish.

Cue the music

My mistake was playing Just Dance several times a week. It makes my muscles twitch when I hear a song to which they are conditioned to move, as does eventually happen at this Veterans of Foreign Wars hall. I show Kristina my routine for Usher's "DJ Got Us Fallin' in Love Again," though I miss some interstitial moves between the ones I like. I then put on the dance video, which takes me out of remembering. Otherwise, I would need to keep my eyes closed, which is not conducive to elegance.

A man comes in from the bar area to tell me I have awesome moves and should be dancing out there where no one is dancing.

Tastes of middle age

On the way to bed, I look back at the living room, piled high with boxes. The most burdensome are from my parents, Amber's Christmas presents, which we are not permitted to open for another ten days. A few are boxes I've packed full of books. Amber's idea was that I ought to pick my absolute favorite or necessary books to move to the new house, the implication being that not all will make that 9-minute trip--nor that all deserve to. Looking at some I have accumulated, they are not all gems, including a middle school literary magazine from an ex, which somehow slipped through four other moves to get here (and which I mail back to her with pictures of her father, grandfather, and beloved dog--all deceased--I found while going papers).

A psychic nudge brings a wave of sadness. The crowded shelves are barer and disorganized. We will leave the apartment that has housed most of our relationship.

I'm pretty sure we are in North Carolina

As a state worker and a teacher, I find that the best part of my job is the breaks. I find no irony in suggesting the best part of working is not working. Thanksgiving, in particular, is welcome since nothing is expected of me but eating two days' worth of calories in one meal. Annually, Amber and I throw our Black Friday Turkey Day party, which is a stressor. Still, it is otherwise several days off to relax--or it had been for the last thirteen years, as we have gone to a buffet with my family. For reasons beyond me, my dear spouse wanted dinner with her father, grandmother, and aunt, a concession a good husband must make after a decade of getting his way. Surely, it is a minor change to eat with another family.

This branch of Amber's family tree lives in North Carolina and Georgia. This would be a tolerable inconvenience, except this plan was made only a few weeks before, and Amber proclaims plane tickets are too expensive at this late date (which is true). They state we might as well drive the twelve to sixteen hours each way.

It's not an enlightened political climate

I am barely through the front door before my coworkers are reciting bumper stickers to one another while giggling.

"Drill, baby, drill!"

"Close the border!"

"Drill, baby, drill!"

"Close the border!"

I cannot peer inside the black box of their minds, but I sense they are single-issue voters, and that issue is "Fuck liberals." I would not go to either of them for nuanced political perspectives, as they would not process them from more than one source, at that source would have clickbait headlines to shame the Weekly World News.