14 February 2010

Year of the cat

"I met a woman the other night at a party," said my supervisor early one morning. This was the first real job I held when I graduated from college, and a tentative friendship had developed between the two of us, though G. was old enough to be my mother.

"Mmm?" I murmured interrogatively, as I date stamped rhythmically, paying attention to neither what she was saying nor what I was stamping.

"She does handwriting analysis."

"Mmm," I said again.

"I gave her a sample of your handwriting."

That got my attention. I looked up. G. wore a funny smile.

"You just walk around with samples of people's handwriting in your bag? So you have them handy when you run into a handwriting analyst?" I asked.

I was 22.

She continued to consider me with the same odd smile.

"She was quite interested in your penmanship," she continued.

"I learned cursive in Catholic school," I replied obscurely, as if that explained everything anyone needed to know.

"She said that your handwriting indicated you were very mysterious. A mysterious woman," G. told me.

I shook my head and picked up my date stamp.

"I'm not," I replied, emphatically and returned to my work.

Go listen to some good music: "Year of the Cat" from the album Year of the Cat by Al Stewart. This really happened. I don't claim mystery, though. I am actually appallingly boring.

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