Edgar bought me a platinum and 18k gold bracelet when I was in my forties. He paid $11,000 for it. He had a lot of money and bought me nice presents. I lost the bracelet one winter day in New York. The catch never worked well, even after I had it repaired a number of times. My aunt and I spent hours looking for the darn thing, in Central Park (where we had walked), in the shops where we had browsed and back in my apartment. I was frantic. I got over it. It was only a bracelet.
When I was 23, I was standing with a group of journalists overlooking Lake Mead in Nevada. I was in Las Vegas for a meeting and had bought a new jacket to take with me. It was in a brown tweedy fabric with little specks of color. I set the jacket down on a concrete ledge, a wind came along, and off it floated, smack into the lake. I obsessed about the jacket for weeks. I had called the store where I purchased it, but it was out of stock. I got over it. It was only a jacket.
One of my accounts decided to terminate the services of my company a few years ago because we wouldn’t automatically follow an instruction we thought was inappropriate and dumb from a junior employee. I was livid because we did exemplary work. I got over it. It was only an account.
I was a feature writer in 1981 for the New York Daily News and it was my dream job. I was laid off after a year, along with hundreds of other employees, because the paper was in dire financial shape. I was hysterical. I was eight months pregnant with my second child and I was the only breadwinner since my husband stayed home with our two-year-old son. I got over it. It was only a job.