Days of the Locust

Oh, boy. Is there anything more destructive of self-confidence than squeezing your droopy 69-year-old buttocks into bike shorts—the kind with gel padding? Yes, there is. What’s worse is wearing those gel-packed butt enlargers outside in broad daylight, which I did this week. The increase in comfort wasn’t worth the damage to my pride. I’ll never be able to look my doorman in the eye again.

I know that Trump not only causes insomnia but suffers from it as well. His doctor says he sleeps only four or five hours a night. I don’t want to speculate about the cause of his sleep disorder, but I wonder how he whiles away the waking wee hours. I know that for me—a lifelong insomniac—that time is spent critiquing my behavior, both recent and historical. I kick myself for all kinds of things. You’d be surprised what a mean and cowardly bitch I’ve been from time to time, how wrongheaded and hamhanded I can be. And how abjectly sorry I am for all of it. Does Trump lie in bed worrying about his failures at friendship and parenting and eldercare? Does he wish he’d shown more love? Does he wish he’d been sterner? Does he wish he’d been more forgiving? Are his dark nights filled with regrets small and large? People seem to doubt he’s capable of introspection. And his daylight demeanor supports that doubt. But sometimes I wish I could borrow some of his insouciance and put my past to

When Other and I were looking for an apartment a few years ago, we knew we wanted a live-in super. But when we found a just-right apartment, it happened to come with not only a super but also a doorman.  It took me a while to cotton to the idea of having a doorman. It violated my sense of privacy. I wasn’t used to having anyone know my comings and goings. And—this may sound churlish—sometimes I don’t feel like saying hello to anyone. There was a little identity crisis going on too: I’ve always had a little bit of contempt for rich people, and now my living circumstances seemed to make me one of them.  But perhaps the biggest dilemma was how to interact with the doorman. He provided services—rushing to open the door, push the elevator button, grab a bag from my arms—that looked like caring but that he was paid to perform. It was confusing. It felt a little bit like love, but it was just a guy doing his job. And I couldn't reciprocate by, say, grabbing his bag. The confusion ha