Cling on

Sitting at a Starbucks, reflecting on the abundance of human contact I have had so far this day. A direct conversation with the landlord, friendly banter with someone at the next table here at the coffee shop, and substantive phone conversations with my accountant in Florida regarding my father's final taxes.

Completing that set of taxes has dragged on largely because of the accountant's very limited availability, though my own apathy about the matter has some play. It's just paperwork at this point, and there has been no urgency driving me to nag the accountant since 6 months ago when I sent him a large batch of papers.

I did go through the motions of nagging the guy, but it was genuinely pointless.

Going to my 181 today to see what other tax-related paperwork awaits. I have not visited the 181 in a while, but any time I do I remember how it used to be located 4 or 5 feet to the right of where it is today. They renovated the post office space to make room for a passport counter, moving my 181 and surround boxes several feet to the left.

Having received mail there for about 15 years when this shift happened I found it disconcerting, and I still do.

A similar thing happened in Tampa. I don't remember how old I was when the postal service changed our zip code from 33612 to 33613. That must have been 25 years ago but to this day I still have to correct myself when addressing letters to Tampa. I specifically mumble to myself "It's not 33612 any more. Add one. 33612 + 1 = 33613."

Maybe it's OCD, or maybe it's a way of clinging to the past.