Sorry for the long silence there, folks. Nothing’s wrong. Winter arrived and I went suddenly into cocoon mode like it was some inescapable lizard instinct. The good news is that I’ve already made inroads on that stack of books beside the bedroom chair. The bad news is that I opened my computer for the first time in days and found multiple emails from readers wanting to know where they should send flowers.
Yesterday I made an effort to break out of my encroaching hibernation…
The wind died and the temperature struggled into the high fifties, and I roused myself to take what might be the last bike ride to town of the season. Lethargy wasn’t the only reason for having to force myself to do it: I needed to accomplish something OFFICIAL. And we all know how that always goes.
Thing is, for various reasons Uncle Joel needs a bank account of his very own. I needed to walk into a bank and say, with Proud Righteous Citizenship ringing in my voice, “I would like to open a bank account.”
Needless to tell longtime readers that I had already procrastinated on this for weeks, waving away several opportunities. Why? Because Uncle Joel is not a good citizen. Uncle Joel’s papers are never, ever in order. This was not going to go well.
The last time I faced this issue, Landlady virtually led me by the hand into a DMV to acquire my very own Photo ID, so that I might (be virtually led by the hand into a Social Security office to) apply for Medicare. Both those incidents went reasonably well – astonishingly well by my standards – because one piece of paperwork I have oddly and ironically managed to hang on to all these years is a faded, dog-eared birth certificate. That document was all I needed to score an official ID, and the two documents got me through the Medicare ordeal. But would they be enough to convince a bank to take my money?
The answer, in case you wondered, is no. I am not yet sufficiently officially me to rate a checking account.
See, it’s things like this that sent me scuttling to the back of beyond in the first place. As I’ve said before, I like to imagine myself this rough tough Jeremiah Johnson throwback when all I really am is a paranoid, excitable, increasingly elderly gimp who can’t keep records.