When the doctor told me that for four weeks post-surgery I would do nothing but sleep, eat and stretch, he glossed over a few things. For one: patients are supposed to sleep flat on their backs; also: patients can’t sleep. Nap, yes. Sleep, no.
In addition, the doctor could in no way account for things like that my mother would barge into my house every day to talk for a few hours, bearing yet another dessert large enough to feed a high school basketball team. This morning, Mom asked what she could bring over. I shouted into the phone, “No! No more puddings! Put down the spring-form pan and back away from the flan! Do not stop for pound cake! If cotton candy tries to give you a strange man, don’t take that, either!”
One thing the doctor was right about, though: after a few exercises, I feel bone-weary and have to put my feet up. Even so, I cannot look a bonbon in the eye.
Another of Georg’s friends sent us productive pressies.
By the end of each day, I feel like I’ve been run over by something large. It’s temporary, of course.
It’s good to have goals. My goal today was to wash my hair. Topaz, Drusy and stuffed penguin approve.
The new chaise where I will probably sleep next week arrived today. Pete immediately covered it with throws to fool the cats into thinking the couch was previously clawed.
We bought furniture. Speaking of things you didn’t see coming, you must watch this all the way to the end.
Last night, I took off all my jewelry ahead of today’s MRI. No, I did not use bolt cutters. Yes, I feel weirdly naked. On the bright side, I’m probably less explosive.
If they do get it, I'm sure there's a cream for that.
I started this post yesterday, then a gin and tonic called my name. Next thing I knew it was after midnight and I felt not at all like talking.
It’s cold here. This morning, frost weighed down the leaves of our backyard sage bushes. We’ve retreated to the attic exercise room for sweaty activity, but it’s tricky. We currently have no TV in the attic. I have the attention span of a toddler in sugar shock. As much as I love the mosh pit sensation that is pushing hard and fast on the elliptical, without something to focus on I climb off the machine after ten minutes to go clean something. For two weeks, I managed 8 or 11 or 10 or 12 minutes, then found myself having a lemon-scented polishing incident. Thwarting my own plans was starting to frustrate me, lack of waxy build up aside. Yesterday, without thinking about it, I dragged my laptop to the attic, found a playlist I’d made for a friend years ago and howled along with Little Green Bag from the executive position atop the elliptical. When it was over, I was four minutes into a pretty decent workout and wondering how I’d tricked me into it. Five songs I truly love later, I felt great and only a few of my neighbors had called 911 about the shrieking. I excite even people who cannot actually see my extreme beauty. Everybody wins!
Last Thursday, I got about halfway through the workday when I realized I was trying to lie down at my desk which, while flat, offered limited coziness options, so I went home and slept until dinnertime, when I wasn’t entirely sure how many fingers I was holding up. Friday morning, I decided to stay in bed and monitor the broadcast culture from a supine position, so perhaps I was able to trick myself into kicking my own ass on Saturday because I was either well-rested or still asleep.
It’s three. I’m holding up three fingers and back to work I go.
Approximate contents of my cranium.
About midday today, I realized the reason I was staring into space and had been for a couple of hours was the fever that seemed to come and go, talking of Michelangelo*. Six or seven tasks awaited my attention, including a few snaps like paying bills, but I couldn’t concentrate long enough to even take them up. In fact, it was a miracle I wasn’t drooling. Then I remembered this intermittent fever-stoopidity thing happened last time I got really sick, probably because I was determined to ignore it. Also hilarious: until that moment, I was planning to drool a little and ignore the fever-stoopidity thing today. Yeah, but now what? It’s hard to do something smart about feeling stoopid – and how do you know when you’re done?
I might not be the first to know.
*Congratulations. You’ve been Prufrocked.
I joke, I kid, but I’m allergic to Planet Earth. Every few years, the planet springs a new combination of allergens on me and my respiratory system goes haywire. I don’t worry about it much unless poison ivy is involved because on me one little blister turns me into one giant blister, which is not a great look for me. So I worry about that, usually in August and September.
At the moment, the calendar says March, I’m inexplicably covered with fetching hives and gulping Benadryl geltabs. This causes me to take sudden naps. So while it is impossible to match a lipstick to an itchy rash when it’s over I’ll be well-rested.