My fingers were itchy. Not just that day a few days ago. No, it was on and off again all fall. No, not because they were dry or any other medical condition. Nope. They wanted to do something.

A couple of weeks ago, I screwed up. Big time. I forgot to file the T4 for one of my clients. (For my American readers, that’s the Canadian version of the W2).

“I can’t believe they said that”, Gail said. “That’s just so wrong!”. We were in the car, headed for Walmart to pick up some ice cream for Gail’s birthday cake.  Earlier that day I had read an email. I was gobsmacked when I got to the end.

“I feel like such a phony! A total imposter!”, she cried. “And it’s so scary and frustrating!’ If my eyebrows could’ve gone any higher, they’d be above my hairline. I looked like an anime character having a freakout. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard something like that (and not the last) but never with such passion.

“Oy! I ache all over”, I said to myself. Of course, that was after shovelling 25cm+ of snow off my driveway last week.

“Should I start boiling the water for the pasta?” I shouted. (I was helping Gail make dinner and I was in the kitchen and she was upstairs). “Yes”, she said. I turned the burner on. But I didn’t check to see if there was any water in the pot.

“Do you ever get bored listening to that?” I was lying on my side in a cool darkened room while the echocardiogram technician was running the wand over my chest. Every once in a while, she’d hit a button and I’d hear the sounds of the blood pumping through the chambers of my hear