Or, an example of my semi-charmed life, wherein I essentially Ferris Bueller my way through and it all somehow works out in my favor.

Setting: A Duane Reade drug store in Midtown. I am at the counter, ready to purchase a can of shaving cream and a roll of paper towels. It is 7:08pm; the drugstore supposedly closed at 7:00pm.

Girl frantically runs up to the counter, sun tan lotion in hand.

Woman behind the counter: We’re closed.

Girl: But I leave on vacation tomorrow morning – couldn’t you ring in just one more thing?

Woman behind the counter: I said, we’re closed. [Gesturing towards me] He’s the last one.

Me: She can take my spot.

Woman behind the counter: [Momentarily stunned by the sight of a New Yorker acting kindly] Well…

Girl: [Profusely] Thank you!

Me: [Noticing girl is extremely attractive] Really, it’s not a problem.

Woman behind the counter: [Having regained composure] I guess I could check out both of you.

Me: [To hot girl, feebly attempting humor] We’re lucky; normally they turn into pumpkins at the stroke of seven.

Woman behind the counter: [Saving me from making further stupid Cinderella jokes] Hey, you two make a cute couple. I think it’s fate you both ended up here at the same time. [To me] You should ask her out.

Me: [Embarrassed laughter]

Hot Girl: [Expectant look]

Me: [Suddenly even more awkward] Actually, I would love to take you out for drinks…

Hot Girl: Absolutely! [Jotting down her phone number on a blank prescription form found discarded at the next register]

Me: [Still somewhat shocked by this turn of events] By the way, I’m Joshua…

[Girl and I converse further as we leave the Duane Reade and walk for a couple of blocks in the same direction. We have established a date for next week by the time our paths diverge. I spend the rest of the evening smiling like an idiot and walking on clouds.]

Fin.

I noticed this morning that my dress shirts were organized by color. Which is odd, because I’m the one who hangs up those shirts. And I certainly hadn’t intentionally been sorting through my dry cleaning to group blues and greens and purples. Just the other day, however, I similarly caught myself reordering the bills in my wallet by denomination. And for months I’ve taken guilty pleasure in categorizing and alphabetizing my CDs.

When did this happen? Why isn’t there anything on the floor of my apartment? Whatever happened to the younger me who, just five years ago, wasn’t even sure the color of the carpet in his room due to the wall-to-wall piles of clothing, books, papers, instruments, athletic gear and other possessions covering it? Somehow I’ve become anal retentive, and I’ve got to stop the dangerous progression now, before, one day, I awake to find I’ve arranged the spice rack by the potency and national origin of each spice.

I headed into San Francisco this morning for the meetings that had brought me out West, borrowing my mother’s car for the trip. On the way out the door, I grabbed a couple of CDs from my father’s collection – by and large, we have fairly similar musical tastes. Without looking, I threw the top CD in and turned up the volume. From the first strains, I new something wasn’t right – The Phantom of the Opera? I checked the pile – all musicals. Tossing down the CDs with disgust, I reached for the eject button. But something stopped me. The overture was vaguely soothing, I reasoned; I would just eject it at the end of the song. Or maybe the end of the next. By the third, I was singing along. I mean really singing along, belting it out like it was my job. I listened to The Music Man next, then Les Mis on the way back home.

Reason hit me as I walked back through the door of my parent’s house. I would just put back the CDs, return to New York, and never speak of it again. After all, what self-respecting guy likes musicals? And yet, apparently, I do. Bringing my masculinity into serious question as it may, I’m ready to own up to it: I like musicals. There should be a support group for this.