I Regret Everything Read Online Free Page A

yogi.
    And there / is Dodd / again / upon / the couch.
    Arranging this reality in iambic pentameter made it easier to deal with.
    When I went out I’d sit in Central Park, usually Strawberry Fields, and think about John Lennon and how he was lucky to get assassinated. I know that sounds weird so don’t get mad but look, how could he ever follow The Beatles and once he was dead there was no pressure. Or maybe I’d go to the Met and hang around the Egyptian pavilion in silent communion with the art lovers. I’d study the carvings on the ancient stones or stare at the sarcophagi and consider the mummies that were buried in them. Here’s a profound thought: The mummies were just like me three millennia ago, people who woke up, ate breakfast, suffered through their day, had dinner, then lived to be about my age and died. If I were an Egyptian, I’d be old. The typical life span today is nearly four times as long. That’s a lot of afternoons to fill. So a few times a week I laced up my Chucks and took long walks. To the northern tip of Manhattan where the East River veered from the Hudson and shells filled with rowers pulling long oars in soothing rhythm glided past. To the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights where with a pen and paper I’d sit on a bench and sketch the boisterous skyline. Fifth Avenue from the arch in Washington Square Park all the way up to Harlem was the best for dog watching because you’d go from toy poodles to pit bulls on one long stroll.
    â€”Where were you walking? my mother would ask when I arrived home.
    â€”Nowhere in particular.
    In my rambles around the city, I thought a lot about Happiness. Whenever I saw my father he reminded me life was about goals. Maybe I would be happier, he suggested, if I had a goal.
    â€”Goals, Spall, he said. You choose one, work toward it, and then before you get there set your sights on another.
    How was anyone ever supposed to feel satisfied? No wonder half the country was on antianxiety medication. But it was complicated since goals per se were not a bad thing.
    â€”Dig the furrow and the harvest will take care of itself, my father said.
    He liked to use farming metaphors even though he went to boarding school. It’s the Protestant work ethic the country was founded on and woe to you if you didn’t get with the Calvinists who ran this place. Even if you wanted to be a glassblower. There was a lot of pressure to be a really good glassblower, to have a shop and a catalogue and blow a shitload of high-quality glass. I wasn’t that competitive. Like my brother Gully. He was building sailboats and my dad thought that was fine as long as he wound up building the boat that won the America’s Cup. But Gully didn’t care about being the guy who built the boat that won the race. He just loved boats. It’s why he was living three thousand miles away in Washington State. So he didn’t have to meet our father for lunch and hear about how an individual needs goals.
    â€”Spaulding, have you gained weight?
    Edward P was seated behind the yacht-sized desk in his law office with its view of rainy southern Manhattan. The drop-in wasn’t planned but if he had an issue with that it was hard to know. As a rule, if a father asked his daughter if she’d gained weight it’s
quel faux pas
but he was probably concerned I might develop anorexia to go along with my other less than optimal qualities so his observation was probably meant to be encouraging. Once you’d been labeled as a person with psychological issues it was hard to figure out how you were being perceived. Was someone walking on eggshells because they didn’t want to trigger an episode or did they mean what they said?
    â€”You told me the same thing last week. The meds cause water retention, remember?
    â€”Well, you look . . . terrific? Am I allowed to say that?
    This was typical for us. My father was not the easiest adult to talk to.