So Help Me God

Right next to me is the letter informing me that I need to report for jury duty this Friday.

I have already arranged my transportation with T., who is going to give me a ride to the courthouse early in the morning, as I have a profound fear of parking problems, particularly downtown. The preferred solution to the jury-duty-downtown-parking-issue would theoretically be to park at Horton Plaza--a nightmarish place to begin with, with parking levels distinguished by fruits and vegetables--but I just can't handle it. Once more, my phobias outweigh "common sense," and thus, I am getting a ride.

I'm semi-surprised that I even got a form to report to jury duty this year. Last year, I asked my therapist to write a letter with all the reasons I was unfit to serve. He took a page right out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders, Version IV, known simply as the DSM, and faxed it in. The letter contained a list of bipolar symptoms, so heinous that just one would have gotten me excused. I think "poor judgment" serves as an example.

But knowing the bureaucracy of our government, naturally, that letter never impacted me getting on the mailing list again.

Now, the question is: why am I going? Why not have my therapist send another letter?

For most, jury duty is simply an onerous civic duty. But for me, it makes me question the level of my disability. After all, now I can sit still; I can concentrate; I can evaluate in an unbiased manner. In the final analysis, what this means is that I can tolerate boredom just as much as the next person, so help me God. I won't claim that I'm normal, but for the purposes of jury duty, there's a chance that I might be normal enough. I won't know until I go.

Now, I have another pressing question...T., are you going to pick me up?