Wasn't feeling like old self. Didn't have old zip, as in zip-a-dee-doo-dah. Didn't have zip at all. Getting out of bed every morning was agony. Work was prolonged muddle. Relaxation at night was replaced by exhaustion. Needed help. Went to doctor. Doctor ran tests. Said I should change number to 23.
"Number?" I asked.
"Your uniform number," doctor replied.
"Don't have uniform," I said. "Basically wear jeans and sweatshirt around house and have killer dark-blue suit with subtle chalk pinstripe that I wear to important meetings. No numbers on any clothing."
"Well, put 'em on. Number everything."
Sounded silly. Doctor wrote number in Roman numerals, XXIII, on prescription pad, just so I would remember. Doctor said amazing things had happened when certain patient in Chicago tried treatment. Silly. Went home, put number 23 on every article of clothing I own. Numbered all 14 blue button-down shirts. Numbered jeans, sweatshirts, killer blue suit with subtle chalk pinstripe, T-shirts, undershorts, neckties. Even numbered socks. Silly. Ridiculous. Put on first set of number 23 clothes.
Began to dance.
Tango. (Never had done tango in life.)