I know you’re all starting to get a little giddy already, in anticipation of my appointment with Tony tomorrow morning. I know you’re chuckling because you knew I wouldn’t follow through with my brilliant alternate approach to the situation. (All right, maybe you’re not chuckling. Maybe you’re just sneering. Mocking me and calling me a jackass for not just saying “No” in the first place. Right?)
Well, I hate to break it to you, my little darlings, but … I cancelled the appointment on my way out of the gym this morning. Yes. I did. When I asked the girl behind the front desk if Tony was around, I was thrilled to learn that he was with a client. “No no no, don’t disturb him,” I said, with a studiedly casual wave of a hand. “I’ll just leave a note.”
What a relief. I was as thrilled to leave a note for Tony as I am when I return a phone call to someone I’ve been avoiding and get their answering machine instead.
Here’s the work of literary genius I left, in my draftsman-perfect block printing:
I'M SORRY, BUT I'M CANCELLING OUR APPOINTMENT FOR 6:00 A.M. TOMORROW.
I'M JUST NOT INTO IT ...!
SEE YOU LATER!
And of course I dated it at the top and scrawled a little picture of my face next to my name, the way I do with almost everything I write (including my law school application and requests for parole).
I was very proud of myself for only discarding one attempt before telling myself the note was “good enough”. Very pleased, indeed, that I didn’t compose eight drafts (Do I say “I’m sorry” or not? Yes? No? Yes? No? Yes! Even if I’m not sorry? Yes! Why? Just because! Just write the fucking thing, you moron! It’s not a thesis!), and then copy the best one onto a clean, unrumpled sheet of paper carefully removed from the little notebook I carry with me at all times. No, instead I felt a grand sense of satisfaction when I boldly tore the sheet from the notebook and handed it (with a bit of a flourish and an adrenaline-perky “Thank you very much!”) to the girl behind the desk. But not before neatly folding it in half and carefully printing TONY on the flap, complete with a straight-mouthed, non-smiling “smiley” inside the “O”.
She probably took one look at that “O”, crumpled the note into a little ball without even reading it, jammed the thing into her backpack, and then maniacally cackled to herself a few hours later when she pulled it out and tossed it into a trashcan on Broadway at the end of her shift.
So I’m going have to tell Tony anyway. Directly. Tomorrow morning at 5:58. To his face. Thus, the note was moot.
I suppose I should be thankful I didn’t write eight drafts.