I’m sorry for frightening everyone. I just learned that various midwest cousins are sending my grandmother quizzical missives, politely inquiring into whether or not I’ve died. And she politely declined to answer, since she wasn’t sure herself.
I’m alive, people. I just had a bad cold. Or maybe the flu. And let me tell you, it was all downhill from there. I’m finally recovering. It’s just that I don’t recover like I used to. One week down from an illness meant I was now one week behind at work, which was not an easy catch-up. And I was also one week behind on laundry and bills and groceries and newspapers and emails. It would all have to be caught up in my “spare time” from 6:30 pm et seq. because I was expected to work as a lawyer in there somewhere. Full time. And then the first week of school came along and WHAM! I was slammed.
I personally blame “forty” for the series of mishaps that have followed. I just don’t recover like I used to. Yes, I said it. I’ve successfully avoided discussing it, but there it is. Forty. I’m told I’m a quadragenarian. Anything that sounds like a symptom that might require Geritol is frightening.
I knew I was screwed at the opthamologist. I turned forty and saw the eye doctor, a young man who shouldn’t be so attractive and have such a nice drawly southern accent. I stare at him. I get away with it because, well, I’m supposed to be looking into his eyes, aren’t I? On my last visit he said, “remember that little experiment we were trying with your stigmatism to see if not wearing glasses would exercise your eyes more?” I remembered. I prided myself on my ability to take the driving test without them on the last time. “Oh. Mmmm hmm.” I loved his lazy way of talking. I smiled and stared into his eyes. “Well, it didn’t work. Start wearing them.”
In fact I inadvertently saw a whole host of health care providers soon after that, all of whom repeated, in lingo appropriate to their various specialities, that my body isn’t what it used to be, that I needed other various procedures performed over the next six weeks, and that it was time for me to move on and accept it. If anyone else tells me to put my big girl panties on I’m going to take mine off and shove it up their …
I scoffed in defiance. I put on my own version of big girl panties, the thong with the sparkly little heart in front.
And then I blew my knee out. I ran for a goal, one on one, and kablammo. It came from behind. I never saw it coming. A tall guy with a pony tail did not want me to score, but wasn’t coordinated enough to effectively manage that. So instead, he went down. And apparently he wanted to take me down with him. As our feet tangled, I watched the ball roll away. With superman precision I flew out, limbs outstretched, and leapt unwillingly onto the artificial turf-over-concrete and landed squarely on slightly bent port patella. As the pain shot through my leg, the fouling perpetrator sealed the injury by landing, with a flourish of tall-person limbs, tiny rubber-substance designed to cushion falls, and a splash of stinky boy sweat dripping from his hippie hairdo, directly on top of me and my port patella. It was special. I couldn’t even get up to take my revenge in the form of a penalty kick. Off the field I went.
But as you moms know, that kind of thing doesn’t stop life, it just complicates it. It requires a visit to the doctor, several visits, but then life goes on. School starts and the lunch-packing horror and homework hysteria ensues. People sue the government and I’m asked to stand up in court with a throbbing knee. Soccer practices keep happening and people expect me to get my children there on time and with cleats on and cold water, all before I’m supposed to be done with work. Laundry still gets dirty, and with soccer in play, it is also increasingly stinky which means it attains an odiferous shelf life before I ever get to it. My children still need to be fed. I still need to be fed. We run out of milk and cereal and peanut-butter after so many days.
And then Husband unwittingly asks me to go car-shopping so he can have a car when he comes home. In my spare time. Yeah, he really did. He really really did. It must be one of the few perks he’s experiencing right now … a complete dissociation from real life. Oh boy, reintegration is going to be so fun. I’m going to need a new pair of panties for that one. I’m going to need a whole wardrobe of sparkly panties for that phase. Maybe he’d like to see my big-girl panty bling in action. Maybe not.
So, the writing had to fall off for a while. Sorry blog-lovers. I knew you’d understand. I’m hiking ’em up high and getting on with life. On the bright side, I have an MRI tomorrow. I’m planning to fake claustrophobia so I can get some happy drugs and take a long, beautiful nap. Wonder if they will make me strip down to my panties …