Quiet Comfort

Few things in life work as well as a calendar. Pandemics, supply chain interruptions, racial strife, climate change, political extremism nonwithstanding—my calendar continues its methodical march to 2021's conclusion in the fashion espoused by head coaches everywhere: one day at a time.

Inflation is spiraling at rates not seen since the early days of the Reagan administration? The larger and more-violent storms predicted by scientists thirty-years ago are now a thing? Louis DeJoy has done to the Post Office what Trump couldn't quite do to democracy?

No matter. The linear flow of my calendar continues unabated.

And thank God. Like its forebearer, 2021 hasn't been a year to remember. It's mostly been an unwanted sequel to 2020, with virus fatigue thrown at no extra charge.

Sure, there were a handful of good movies and some pop music that didn't inspire commentary along the lines of “Oh, that sounds like ___________.” Talking to you, Dua Lipa.

And there was that epic trip out west in my trusty Accord. And the Sky's WNBA championship. And the beautiful fall afternoon I got to drive a Porsche 911 4S around a race track with no worries of drawing law enforcement's attention.

But so much else remains up in the air.

Am I ever going to be able to safely travel internationally before I'm too old but do anything but sit on a tour bus? Is my hideously over-taxed home ever going to appreciate to anyone outside of the county assessor's office? Is the legal matter which has inserted itself into my life ever going to move forward?

Sigh.

Yet my calendar remains firmly and intractably rooted in its mission. It relentlessly (and in the case of 2021, thankfully) moves forward, even if my attorney seems incapable of doing so.

In the meantime I'll quibble with the company who didn't/couldn't/wouldn't cancel an order placed just minutes beforehand and who won't fully refund the unwanted item after it showed up seven weeks later.

Or ponder why five business days wasn't enough time for my local post office to move a piece of mail the 5.32 miles between my bank and the village hall, resulting in multiple late fees the post office is—curiously enough—uninterested in assuming.

Or why my cell phone routinely turns off its Wi-Fi. Or why drivers in my area have such a tough time aligning the number on speed limit signs with the readout on their speedometers. Or if those filmy, plastic produce bags in supermarkets will ever be easy to open.

At least my calendar works. Yesterday was the twenty-eighth. Today is the twenty-ninth. Tomorrow will be the thirtieth.

What comfort.