I went to a Maxim party at G gallery last night. The svelt-looking bouncer was on some really sleek and chic black crutches. I hobbled over to him to ask him about his cool crutches — which I find endlessly fascinating these days. He got busy with party people, but I stopped myself when I saw he was one-legged, not injured. Well, I’ll keep quiet about it, I thought. Not that he wouldn’t share, but I felt ashamed of myself for being annoyed with the sticks. He was a good-looking, tough New York-accented Italian guy and he grandly and happily made way on the red carpet for me. I thought to myself, good move hiring him. No one would fuck with this guy –  a one-legged wise guy.

Later, as I was leaving the party and waiting for my “chauffeur” to bring the car around, I stood on the sidewalk and sighed, wearily collapsing on the crutches. The bouncer shouted out cheerily, “Hey baby, you’re just a short timer. I’m a lifer. You’ll be ok. Just a short times.” Wow, I smiled. He was right. He was good.

Since Yom Kippur, I’ve felt a shift in my perspective on this injury. The rebbi at the Chabad on Montana was so chill. “Open your mitzor, I’ll call out the page numbers. But if whether you’re on the same page as me, it doesn’t matter. G-d doesn’t care what page your on. You’re here, you’re praying, that’s all the matters.”It’s all in G-d’s hands, whether stone is worn or glass is blown or bricks fall.

All the well wishers – especially the hot Ryan Lochte-types at the pool – have been really supportive.

It’s a gift; a whole new lens at looking at the world and I only get it for a short time. Most thankful for that.