A sign of age

 What does it say about the people I know that the last three emails I wrote had the phrase "sorry to hear that ..." in the first sentence? One was to my brother, who's having his boy gland zapped, which isn't bothering him, and hormone treatments, which are. The second was to an ex B&N coworker who needs to have surgery on her neck in November to fuse parts of it together, and the third was to a friend who's mother is ill enough that she's moved in with her. She said the highlights of her days are when she walks the family dog. 

It says that I'm gittin' old.

If I was in my twenties, I bet a lot of my emails would say things like, "So happy to hear you're getting married!", "Congrats on the promotion!" and "You're buying a house? Cool!" Of course, when I was in my twenties email was something known about and used by only tech geeks for exchanging things incomprehensible to people like me.

Missed

First, the Loser missed her. Then, he missed hearing from her, talking about things on the phone, planning the next time they'd meet. Then he missed emails. (She was smart and wrote good ones.)
Now he misses the fact of getting messages from someone who likes him in that way, proof that she was thinking of him. 

The world is a big, lonely place.

The post break-up email

It is polite and friendly and comes no less than two days after the last one. 
The one who dumped (her) is casual and upbeat, which comes off as distant: "My week was busier than usual and I've enrolled in a new course. It's not something I need to know now but if I ever want to teach I'll be glad I did. How was your day off?"
The one dumped (me) tries to avoid a bitter and sad phrase yet fails: "That's good that you're taking that class. More education never hurts and usually helps! Didn't do much on my day off. Just puttered around, took a nap." 

Dealing with pain

It's 1970 and the Complete and Total Loser is twelve years old. His crippled right leg, stunted by three operations to remove cartilaginous tumors, has ceased growth. X-rays show that the Loser may reach a height of six-feet-two-inches. The discrepancy would be debilitating, as the Loser already wears a shoe with a lift of over three inches. 
The solution is to cut clean through the bones of the Loser's left leg, five times at both the ankle and knee, shattering the growth plates to stop the leg's growth. The orthopedic surgeon is, like many bone guys, a tough man; his last name is Steel. He performs the operation with a drill and chisel and the Loser awakes in a cast that immobilizes the leg and goes around his hips. Blood leaks from four long incisions and soaks though the cast at both joints.
Even when done with clean instruments and skill, a major bone break hurts, and the Loser is in intense pain. This being a different era, they are reluctant to give much pain medication. The Loser howls in agony off and on for two weeks and is in much discomfort for another three weeks after that. He doesn't crap the first week. His adult height will be five-feet-nine-inches, and he'll wear a shoe with a seven-inch lift for the rest of his life.
The lesson learned is that pain of all kinds subsides. It takes longer than you think, much longer, but it does go away. Recently dumped by the first woman to like him in years, the Loser hurts now. He knows, however, that in a year or so he'll start keying in a name similar to hers in an email address line and when her name pops up he'll think of her for only a few seconds. Then he'll resume and think of a catchy subject line for the person he means to write.

Light Fixtures

The Complete and Total Loser has done it again. Broken something that cannot be replaced. The cover of a ceiling fluorescent light. Oh, he tried. Hard. Many phone calls to many places.
You'd be surprised how many people say, "Bring the broken one here," and were suspicious of the idea of getting an email with photos and measurements. They don't say it, but the Loser can sense what they're thinking: That's not how it's done. Men get in cars and drive all over for this kind of thing, spending time and gas to see for themselves.

The Loser said to some, in a friendly way, "C'mon, let's be twenty-first century and do what we can by email." Sure enough, none had what he needed. At last, hope. A place online in Minneapolis. Measurements sent, photos too. Confirmation over the phone. Arrives two weeks later. Not a fit and the Loser, being a Loser, breaks it while trying to put it on.
Oh, to live in a totalitarian society where all cars, houses, mailboxes, suits and goddamn lighting fixtures are identical!