My actions were once charged with symbolism, long ago.
When I turned off episodes of Will and Grace, it meant something, damn it.
When I went into the kitchen and unwrapped granola bars, entire worlds of question were opened in all the major universities as to what implications the subtext of my movements had.
Then I moved to Seattle.
Please do not doubt me when I say it is a wonderful city. The people are kind and the space needle is as tall as I had hoped it would be, but something in the physics is different here.
No longer can I walk down the hallway of my office building holding a stack of papers without bumping into a coworker of the opposite gender and having said papers scatter hilariously to the floor as we lock eyes. No longer can I lose my wallet in a taxi cab and not have it returned to me the next day by an heartwarmingly adorable accident prone copyeditor who gets into the cab after I leave. When I am at check out stands, I fear going close to the take a penny leave a penny tray, dare my hand accidently meet that of a quirky, wonderful, 20 to 30 something looking for another chance at life.
I have moved to a Romantic Comedy, and I believe there is no way out. I could try leaving, but I fear I will only be setting up the plot for one of those long distance relationship movies. No, I am afraid I must stay here and make the best of it.
It might not be so terrible, adapting this new kind of life. I took my dog for a walk in the park the other day, and only once or twice did he find an energetic legal counselor on a journey of self discovery to accidentally tangle up in his leash.
Also there was a doctor.
I apologized on all three incidents and the rest of the walk went on uneventfully.