Deets and I walked for over an hour yesterday morning and could easily have gone longer. Off leash, she climbed trees, pulled their bark with her tiny maw, chased bugs, climbed again, found herself out on limbs from which I might hear her plaintive meow and arrive to wait to be her step ladder. The sun was warm and we sometimes still stood firmly atop the shining snowpack, rather than sinking right in. Unfortunately, I’d made the terrible choice of wearing my cozy UGGs which, despite the crusty airy lightness of the snow, soaked through quite thoroughly. When we got home, I thawed my feet while Deets napped. I felt drowsy but barely dozed. I had a procedure in the early afternoon of which I’d been afraid for over a decade by then. Thankfully I had made the appointment the day prior, which left very little time for my nerves to find purchase. How lovely to finally read “Brokeback Mountain”afterwards! To amble and fumble in that cozy bookstore; maybe doze some more. That particular unconsciousness was chemically enhanced, for between my home rest and medical procedure, I had ingested 2 mg of clonazepam. These pills I had procured over a counter in Mexico after a road trip two autumns ago. Today I planned to constructively volunteer that I’d taken a downer “under the advice of [my current GP]”. Nobody asked. I’d walked the cat, vaguely dozed, taken my self-prescription along with the doctor recommended 800mg of ibuprofen, then procured en route a variety of comfort foods that ultimately, and to the stunning obliteration of long-held fears, became nonessential. I arrived at the doctor’s office in a hazy dream state that I’m sure came off as chill—they still did the thing didn’t they. With my stockinged feet in the stirrups I was stoic, almost relaxed, not even tempted to scream or cry. Then clothed again. I found myself sat in a cozy chair surrounded by books bathed in the haze of sunlight specific and unique to libraries and stores precisely like this one, what fortune. In that speckled, bright air I read, dreaming of Heath Ledger, marveling at Annie Proulx, basking in the paper-perfumed warmth, indulging in tracing a long-cherished film finally back to its provenance. The pictures dancing in my dozy mind were only slightly familiar. With heavy eyes I crossed the decades over which this story had accompanied me, there and back again. At the end, rousing myself I reshelved dear Proulx. It appeared somehow and I purchased, for a single dollar, Fear of Flying. In the wake of last weeks’ completion of All Fours, Jong’s reputation felt apt and bold. I was celebrating, reveling, moving forward in the success and burden that is my beloved body. I craved sushi. That I would be a single diner at the best restaurant in town on a Friday night only served to swell the rashness—trashiness?—of my having a classic, notorious, and very visibly titled book as my date. The hard-working, long-lasting benzos only further intoxicated my relief at having overcome PTSD from the initial procedure enough to not only sign up for this one but to have actually gone through with it! I did not realize what an astute observer might notice until the first dish—a silky gyoza barely crisp at the pinched edges paired with a sauce for which I could’ve found many more uses—had filled my mouth and belly with pleasure that expanded right up to and toed the social indiscretion that is licking one’s plate.