Ignoring the three weeks in which I haven’t written (more on that later), I’m back in Ann Arbor watching bad movies on television and changing my socks more often than I should. The flight home was uneventful, apart from a poem written during the layover in Frankfurt (see poems in progress), and a tense pow-wow with the customs officers in Detroit. I guess when you admit to having a water pipe, bulk food products and foreign pharmaceuticals in your luggage they flag you for inspection automatically.
Since getting back I have been intensifying my job search, working here and there at the JCC, and sitting on my butt. It’s really odd seeing all my ungraduated old friends in the new context of my post-graduation limbo. Even those among them who seemed the most stilted and hopeless two months ago, now exude progress and potential compared with my perpetual unemployed daydreaming. Maybe jumping head-first into winter, home and uselessness is getting me a little down. I hope I find a job soon.
A few days ago I was unpacking, and I pulled out a pair of new slacks that i bought in Israel. I showed them to Irena and she insisted on fitting, pinning and taking them to be hemmed. Gratefully, I agreed. As instructed, I put on only my right shoe and stood in front of a mirror for her to pin the leg up at the correct length. After the right leg was done, I asked if she wanted me to put on my left shoe and pin the other leg as well, and she said no. The pants were sent to the tailor on the assumption that a professional in clothing alterations could make due with the length of one pant leg to alter a pair of pants. When I picked the pants up yesterday and tried them on, the right leg was perfect, but the left leg was about two centimeters shorter. The moral of the story? Buy pants that fit to begin with.