Out Of Sorts

Somewhere along my Sunday morning commute on the Number Six train I made the realization—or perhaps finally admitted to myself—I had fallen hopelessly out of sorts. Out of Sorts: that state of being irritable, unsatisfied, off-kilter, vexed, often the related to the occurrence of certain unexpected events and/or the non-occurrence of certain expected events.

I should have seen it coming the night before, as I pulled together all the final details for the Sunday worship service. I felt the first pangs of being out of sorts when I broke a guitar string while rehearsing the music. Being without an extra set of strings, I would have to find a different guitar for church. Not ideal. Nothing throws a guitarist more out of sorts than playing an unfamiliar guitar. It’s like borrowing someone else’s car: the mirrors are set too high, the seat too far back, you have no idea where the windshield wiper controls are, the radio pre-sets play all country music stations… Shortly after the guitar string broke, my printer ran out of black ink. I was now short one guitar string and about six copies of music.

And then, in the morning, this: the terribly unfortunate (although not altogether uncommon) loss of hot water in my apartment. I turned on the water, ready to put aside the grievances of my ill-fated preparations for worship from the night before and be renewed, rejuvenated, soothed, comforted, and consoled by perhaps the greatest and (I now realize) least appreciated technological advancement of all time—hot water on tap. I ran my hand through the unfeeling and unapologetically freezing water streaming from the tap, coaxing it, naively and ultimately ineffectually, to turn hot.

Yes, there you have it, I thought to myself as the Number Six train lumbered along. A complete accounting of my falling out of sorts for the morning. Well, no permanent damage. Certainly I can put this all behind me and pull it together before I get to church. And then the announcement came, crackling and nearly incomprehensible, through the train speakers: “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, due to construction, all Number Six trains will be running express from 14^th Street to Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall. For local service, take this train to Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall, and transfer to an Uptown Number Six train making all local stops. Once again, due to construction…” I tuned out the rest of the announcement as I spent a moment silently shaking my head at the MTA, before plotting a new transportation strategy. I was already running late; I had foolishly been counting on this local train to make all local stops. Apparently too much to ask. Only one thing to be done: I had to take a cab.

I arrived at church ten minutes late, five fewer dollars in my wallet from the cab ride I shouldn’t have had to take, unshowered and with a guitar I was unused to playing. This is an outrage, I thought. An outrage. The broken guitar string, well, that amounted to an unfortunate inconvenience. But the hot water… I don’t pay my hot water bill to be provided with cold water. And the train… I didn’t pay $2.25 to arrive almost at my destination. This is an outrage! An outrage I say! Who will rally with me against these atrocities? I do not deserve to be put out of sorts by such negligence. No one does! Who will boldly stand with me and say that enough is enough? Hot water should come from the hot water tap. The train should take me where I’m going, on time, every time. Ink should not run out. Guitar strings should not break.

Oh the things on which I’ve come to rely.