I was late paying rent this month. It wasn’t because I didn’t have the money. It was because I couldn’t somehow fit into my life – or couldn’t bring myself to – find the cheque book, write the cheque, find and put it in an envelope, then walk five houses south to my landlord’s house and put the envelope in his mailbox.
On the fifth he called me, and on the seventh, I finally did it. It took about seven minutes. As I walked in the sunshine down the cold, morning street, I thought about how good it is that I live in a place where everything is profoundly simple – it’s not like I have to get on three subways, or stand in line at the post office to buy stamps to pay my rent. I realised a very true thing about myself: I don’t like to bother.
This has maybe been one of the most determining factors of my life so far: that I don’t like to bother. My not liking to bother may be more at the root of everything than — whatever — my relationship to my father, my upbringing by my mother.
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