That’s an affectation, and I hate affectation, but I think affectation has an effect (at which moment it becomes effectation). At least I admit it when I affect. One must be allowed to effectively affect, provided one owns it.

I state, “I want to learn to be wrong.” Here is what I mean:

Two days ago, I lunched with an old acquaintance in a good restaurant. It was John’s turn to buy, so he picked the place and made the reservation. After we were seated and had made our individual decisions about whether to hang our jackets on the old-fashioned wall-hooks or on the backs of our wooden chairs, he started one of those chef conversations.

“There’s a new chef here,” he said. “What’s his name?”John aimed his eyes upward without lifting his chin. “He used to work at that place in Sonoma; oh… what is it called?”

“It doesn’t matter, John.” I tried to knot that conversational thread. “This is San Francisco, there are a thousand great chefs, I don’t know their names so I can’t help you, and the name won’t mean anything to me. I expect we’ll eat good food.”

He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Oh, you know who I mean…” he prompted as he looked at me shaking my head in disagreement. “He started that place…”

***

Later the same afternoon, I returned a telephone call from a business friend. Jen regularly attends opera, symphony and ballet performances. I don’t; at age 47, my friend Paul had just taken me to my first opera the weekend before. She asked me how I liked it.

I said, “The opera. Oh boy. I read the review beforehand and went into it understanding that the performance was not considered admirable. I agreed with that opinion. But what did I know? I didn’t realize that the director reworked all the chorus parts and transformed the production. I was amazed that Paul found it wonderful. He applauded with his arms out, hands clapping up and down. It reminded me of a trained seal. I was also reminded of the description of a Navajo sweat lodge ceremony: after I adjusted to the confinement of the narrow seat, the restriction of my legs and feet in small uncrossable space, the beading of sweat on my face (around my hairline, in the creases beneath my eyes and beside my nose), the moistness of my hands as I tried (so discreetly) to wipe that face, after I accepted all that and slowed down to where I could appreciate the six molecules of cool air convecting about me, I believe I achieved a minor trance state which enabled me to tolerate and partially enjoy the experience.”

“You were too warm?” Jen asked, unnecessarily I thought.

“Oh, yeah. Me and everyone else. Apparently the renovated opera house is already famous for abysmal ventilation (actually, an abyss is probably better ventilated).”

“Where were you sitting?”

“I don’t know what it’s called. Third row something, not down on the bottom.”

“Grand tier?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Balcony?”

“Jen. I don’t know. Paul has had season tickets for 20 years now. I think we can count on him to have done as well for himself as he could. They’re respectable seats.”

“Must be balcony.” There was no deflecting her.