I can tell my broken arm is getting stronger because, with concentration, I can push myself back in the recliner.
Now there’s a sentence I never imagined writing.
If you are a younger reader, or think reading about health related topics is really uncool, don’t give up on this yet.
Seriously, setting up the chair was kind of tricky at first.
I had to sit on the floor with my legs braced against sides and then use my trusty right arm to pull the footrest up.
Getting in it while it was reclined also had its challenges.
Three years ago I was embarrassed about buying a recliner for about 5 minutes.
We’ve always had some sort of flexible seating over the years;
examples being
a bean bag that turned into a bed,
a Swedish exercise ball that ended up being the best dog toy ever,
rocking chairs to hold sweaters, and
something that may have spun but never got the chance. Why not a recliner?
I just didn’t think I’d be writing about the lazy boy wanna-be.
There are going to be many things that we never imagined we’d write or say.
As a ski teacher, I responded in an interview that my secret for staying fit was “Burgers, Butts and Booze”.
That 29 year old would never had imagined her older self discussing recliners just as her older self is rolling her eyes at the flippant comment of her younger self.
Our priorities, preferences, and peccadillos all change.
Sometimes it’s due to necessity but mostly it’s due to our own discernment. We make choices in hopes that it makes our lives more pleasant for ourselves and for the people around us.
It’s important to be comfortable and to provide comfort.
The night before flying out to an 8 day writer’s retreat in California, I fell and hurt my arm. I knew it wasn’t your normal get-run-into-by-the-dog fall, nor was it like fighting with weeds and falling over backward. This really fucking hurt.
It hurt so much that I didn’t think about any kind of pain killer, not even the 5 year old, travel size container of Advil in my beauty bag.
(I did look up whether or not one should fly with a hematoma. However, I don’t recommend doing that until you are about to board.)
Because of my arm, I had no choice but to pull out clothes, to lighten my carry on, in the airport parking garage before flying out. Not only was I unable to lift the bag into an overhead bin, I could barely wheel it with my good arm that was already saddled by my 20 pound personal item.
That really stung because I spent 3 weeks trying on outfits. I’m a master packer. Fortunately, to tie all my outfits together, I had a stretchy scarf in different shades of blue. I fashioned it into a sling and it blended well with the lengthening bruise on my arm.
I was physically uncomfortable most of the time away, but mentally, I loved every second.
I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time using my right hand and pretty much nothing else. It just wrote and wrote and wrote.
The rest of my body was in a conundrum, “Shouldn’t we be hiking, breathing in that red wood air, practicing yoga, helping to stack chairs, or drinking box wine? What’s going on?”
“Take this opportunity to take a break” my heart and mind said, as they flexed and posed for each other.
And it did.
Back home, after losing my luggage due to a tight red eye connection and seeing mom, I went to the Urgent Care Center in town. X rays showed a fracture on the humeral tuberosity.
They set me up with an orthopedist appointment and gave me a shot in my good arm.
That shot was the mother of all injections. It took two hours before it stopped throbbing. But man did it work. My hurt arm was so painless that I wondered if I had been faking all along.
The next day, the orthopedist concurred with the reading.
“Considering it’s had almost 2 weeks healing time, we will x ray again in 2 more weeks and then start rehab. I can’t believe all you had was 10 advil, the first weeks can be really painful.”
“Are you saying I’m really tough because I didn’t have much pain medication? I want to tell my mom.”
“Yes, you are really tough.” She flashed me a no-nonsense grin.
I knew it.
Banana Slug-slowest animal on the planet next to me.
“I told you so. When they say Very Spicy they mean it.”
It’s a double hit. First your mouth is on fire and then your face is burning red because you didn’t heed the advice.
You should be ashamed.
“Shame on you for not listening to me” really means I know you already feel bad so let me make it worse.
Shame is no fun.
They told us not to let our new dog off her leash for at least six months, or ever.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
After three days, I let Lassie drag her leash while taking her morning constitutional.
“She was great!” I told Peter before leaving for classes.
It was great until it wasn’t. Later that morning Lassie took off from Peter, dragging her leash behind her.
My ego isn’t big nor stupid enough to think that I was what she went in search of.
Her thoughts:
That’s a big wall of trees touching the sky. Am I still in Ohio? I’ve never run like this. Whee!
I’m running down, down, down and up, up up!
Damn I’m tired.
This cave smells like tough guys, time to move on.
I’m a fucking gazelle!
Wait. Where am I?
I believe she got carried away with excitement and forgot what she was doing, I know the feeling.
She went down, across, along, over, up, through, across, crisscross, under, around, down, up, and across.
The six inches of snow was a blessing. (Her tracks were evident as was the dragging leash, however it took me longer to find her because I am NOT a tracker and spent way too long following her in the wrong direction.)
The two melted patches I passed, where she had curled up to take a rest, were a slap in the face. The only patches I left were from belly crawling under a downed pine and sliding on my ass down a ravine so as not to break my ankle.
My thoughts:
Really? You are walking straight up this mountain? What’s wrong with following a logging road?
There are a lot of prints outside this cave in addition to you and your leash. Am I scared?
What time is it? Don’t look.
Maybe Damon’s dogs could track her.
Maybe we aren’t supposed to have a dog.
How long do I keep searching?
What will we say to the foster parents? What about to the president of the association, who interviewed me nicely but firmly for 35 minutes about the probability of Australian Shepards darting off, before giving us clearance to adopt? Oh the shame.
When I found her under a shack placed on cinder blocks, the relief felt like a Very Spicy Vindaloo flowing through my body. Unfortunately it didn’t reach my fingers. Obviously my hands are not used to clawing and grabbing onto saplings and rocks on my knees for much of the 9 miles and 3 ½ hours it took me to find her.
Who am I to complain, Lassie’s journey was seven times that in dog years.
“I told ya so!” many smart dog owners might say, but instead of shame, I feel compassion and empathy for dolts like us.
This is how we learn; through experience, trust, panic, patience, mistakes, drive, fortitude, commitment, and hope. We go with our gut, which is sometimes wrong.
Peter’s journey included driving into Sykes Hollow.
I can’t talk right now so I’m using my mom‘s hand to write this. Ask your mom to read it to you.
Some things may get lost in translation, like in the telephone game. That’s a typical human problem if you ask me.
As you know, I arrived pretty quickly to Vermont, and I had a whirlwind of a time. The sounds, the smells, the sights, the shit!
I can’t believe the smorgasbord around here, porcupine, rabbit, skunk, groundhog, deer, fox, bobcat, coydog, bear, and a couple other nuggets that could’ve been dropped off by an owl. I enjoyed going back for seconds and thirds. I could grab mouthfuls on the fly!
Anyway, I loved spending our short time together. I will never forget when you pretended to get stuck in the culvert! Not fat shaming here. Watching our moms panic was pretty funny.
I also won’t forget when I let my guard down with Maggie. You don’t know her, but she’s got a set of chompers on her. However, her bark is worse than her bite. As my dad said, “‘twas but a flesh wound.”
I had to leave as quickly as I came because I’ve got lives to live. Coming and going. Not much difference as far as I can tell. Anyway, I must’ve eaten one too many piles of junk.
The morning started normally enough, I snuggled with my mom before eating and pooping. Yes – I said before. (Don’t tell anyone but I’m pretty soft under this street savvy, tough girl, coat of fur.)
Mom left for class, and dad went to the cellar. Sometimes he makes the best racket down there. It reminds me of something. Can’t quite remember what though.
That’s when I realized it was time for me to hit the road. I threw up really loudly to get his attention. Then I went outside to lie down.
This year was the first time I ever saw snow. What’s the big hoopla anyway? Not impressed. I’ve seen deeper piles of sand on the side of streets somewhere that I can’t quite remember.
Dad got me inside, and I just waited for mom. I saved her my last breath, but I don’t think she noticed. She was looking at my eyes.
One thing that makes me laugh is that the vacuum cleaner will have to be unclogged and emptied at least 5 times in order to pick up all the pieces of bone, paper, cans, baskets, tennis balls, hula-hoops, and foam from all those cheap-ass toys my mom kept bringing home. And she hates vacuuming!
I decided to get cremated with the group rather than by myself. Me and a few unknown (but soon to be) buds got places to go.
I’m not sure where I’m off to next, but when I get there, if I remember, I’ll keep a part of you and my humans with me as faint, but really nice memories.
Just a last reminder. We may just be dogs but we do powerful things when given the opportunity.
Don’t forget to bark at Mike the UPS man for me when you see him.
From where I sit, I can see the giant round, blue, Swedish chair (that Nellie uses for calisthenics) beyond the gray, above ground, Bestway Steel Pro Max swimming pool.
One pink rose blooms at the corner of the vegetable garden. The six types of weeds growing up between the fencing of chicken wire, plastic, bungee cords, metal rods, dowels, and iron banister pieces from the old house, obscure and protect the bumper crop of dark green and purple kale.
Nellies toys, bones, hula hoops, pillow stuffing, flip-flops, and T-shirts (also known as Teeth Shirts) are spread over the lush green grass.
To be kind, one might call the look hodgepodge. Less kind visitors might use the word eyesore.
If I were a different person, I might be embarrassed at the uncouthness of it all. However, the vista of natural and man-made blue, gray, green, brown, black, yellow, red, orange, and white, in all it’s shades, shapes, and sizes is like nothing I’ve seen before.
I’m in the middle of a project and am in Procrastination Mode. I know so because I have redecorated, rearranged my books, organized my purses, and categorized everything in my 9×10 dorm room office. Tapestries are still a thing in our house.
I found my calendars from 1987 on. Not found but pulled off the shelf. I’m going through each one jotting down interesting facts. (I’ve done a lot of birthday parties for kids and have also seen more concerts than I literally remember.)
Some years included a lot of eating out. Other years have a lot of dinner parties in.
I’m only up to 2010 but what’s interesting to me, so far, is it takes me an hour to go through each year. I’ve timed it. That means that no matter whether I was confused or confident, solvent or squeaking by, focused or figuring things out, time was and remains constant.
Perhaps my information processing speed is faster or slower than others.
Nevertheless, the past years may have felt like a blur but they weren’t. We don’t know what blocks of time feel like until we think about them for more than a second or two after. That’s when memories can start drifting in. Memories, whether fabricated, recovered, or honored are what remind us we are human.
It’s interesting to notice trends from decade to decade or relationship to relationship. It’s fun to see how diverging career paths makes sense. It’s fascinating to notice what gets highlighted and what doesn’t. It’s reassuring to notice that sometimes names disappear and then return.
I’m comfortable taking 35 hours to remind myself of 35 years of my life. Any more and I would bore myself to death.
Being a productive procrastinator, I’m now going to separate the metal bindings, plastic dividers, and paper for the recycling bins.
If you aren’t a knitter, the utter horror of what I’m about to describe may not be fully appreciated. However, if you believe that most kids are brats by nature, keep reading.
Last week I was up at Merck Forest doing my volunteer job of labeling the maple syrup bottles. It isn’t as easy as it looks. (The boss, my sister, is somewhat of a stickler for details.) One sticker gets lined up on the bottle cap, another next to the logo, and one of four barcodes adheres to the back depending on the bottle size. That’s the one that takes the most concentration. I’m proud to say, so far, I’ve only had to correct the barcode about 3 times in two years.
After my chores were done, I sat and knit amidst the cartons and waited for someone else to restock the shelves. I can only take so much manual labor.
Sometimes knitting can be meditative, zen like in rhythm, a time to enjoy the ease of soft focus… not this project. This was a complicated headband I’d already started, pulled out, and started again at least three times. It involved a circular needle, really thin yard, a provisional cast on, 4 cables, and the kirchner stitch. It took a lot of concentration to zone in or out.
Sometimes knitting projects don’t want to be knit, and I know when to quit. Not this time.
Earlier in the week I planned to email the designer and tell her there was an error in her instructions. I sure am glad I didn’t.
(Don’t quit reading, the brats are about to enter the story.)
“33-34-35-36. Phew, still haven’t lost any stitches.” I congratulated myself.
Two siblings wandered into the room, “Whatcha doin’?”
“Knitting”
“We want to knit. Can you teach us?” asked the six year old.
“No but I’m sure someone could.”
“What’s this?” she continued.
“My lunchbox.”
“It’s really hard to open.”
“Hmmm”
The father ambled in and sat down next to me showing the same amount of respect towards personal space as his children. “I hope they aren’t bothering you.” Interesting comment considering one child was spinning two of my completed (no frills) headbands around her wrists like mini hula hoops and her older brother was clacking a pair of extra needles together. “Look, I’m knitting air!”
“Oh, they’re fine.”
I felt guilty not giving my attention to the kids so I pushed my project deep in the bottom of the knitting bag and wondered whose fault it would be when someone lost an eye.
“Oh, this is so soft,” said the urchin as her arm disappeared into my bag of wool as I looked away for a second.
“Hey! What’s this?” With that she pulled out a circular needle without any stitches attached. I was frozen with horror for 1.5 seconds and then moaned “NOOOOOOOOOO”.
This got the father’s attention as well as my sister’s. I didn’t hear if the child apologized as instructed but I did here my sister say,
“Give me those needles. Get your hand out of her bag. Move away from the bottles. This isn’t safe. Go outside. It’s too nice to be in here.” They obeyed.
I couldn’t speak for the next four minutes. My total concern was on saving my work.
“33-34-35-36, oh thank God. You saved me! Those kids just caught me by surprise.”
“Maybe you assumed the father would have a little control. Meanwhile the mother is on her cell phone at the picnic table. I hate bratty kids.” She announced.
I agreed with her and packed up my stuff so I could go home, lie on the couch and knit in peace on the most beautiful day of the year.
Bratty kids are no fun whether they are 6 or 63. Unfortunately boredom, hunger, fatigue, impatience, frustration, or just a bad mood are inevitable at any age.
Ideally family or friends will ignore our behavior (within limits) or say “Knock it off!”
However, it’s best if we can say the latter to ourselves – before someone loses an eye.
Namaste- It’s okay to be bratty, just don’t stay that way!
Peter has been out of town for a few nights. That doesn’t happen often so I take the opportunity to clear out clutter. I’m not going into details on what got culled, I like to see if he notices- and believe me- he will look when he returns home.
I got inspired by a friend of mine who pretends her house is going on the market. She goes around cleaning, tidying, and staging each room. “I’ve got four rooms finished and even touched up the trim with paint!”
The least I could do, after chucking two bottles of fish sauce with 2014 expiration dates, was to continue to go through old beauty products.
The 24 mini bottles of body lotion I purchased on EBay that smelled so good in a hotel ten years ago were among the first to go.
I also tossed an assortment of brushes that would have had more use in a kindergarten art class. I’m sure they came from a makeover in NYC around 15 years ago. I wasn’t aware that you should look for an advisor with similar skin tone or whose makeup you liked.
My makeup artist was a very attractive African American man half my age. He smelled nice.
My next cosmetic advisor, Nadia, was a better choice. Because she is my friend, she wasn’t making a commission. “Try this stuff, it’s excellent!” So I did.
I looked radiant, dewy, and downright perky. The products were fantastic! It was as if I were wearing no makeup at all. I could feel the appreciative, and perhaps slightly envious looks from others.
On the fourth day I realized I’d never broken the seal, nor removed the clear protective covers on the balm, stick, or bronzer. No wonder this product felt like I was wearing nothing at all.
I was literally and figuratively wearing Puss’s boots dressed in the Emperor’s new clothes.
I sure fooled myself. I love placebos, they get me all the time. Then again, confidence comes from within.
It was the summer of 1972 and Dee and I were ten and twelve respectively. We were trapped in a house of, surprisingly clean, plastic panels. It was a House of Mirrors with no mirrors. “Over here!” I called. Her look of relief didn’t last long as she ran into the invisible barrier.
I didn’t feel bad because I hadn’t intentionally misled her. No one should feel bad for her anyway, I was the one wetting my pants laughing.
Since that episode I have been more of the catalyst rather than the reactor.
As we started down the aisle at Mom and Pen’s wedding rehearsal, my Wicked Witch of the West impression made her run out of the church.
In my defense, all I did was point one toe forward and say “Are you ready to go my pretty?”
More than once she’s had to sit on towels, after I’ve ordered iced teas at McDonalds using a clever blend of foreign accents.
So many great memories!
It’s just by chance that our 50th year would culminate in two definites and at least four really close calls over a three day period in Burlington last week.
That’s a lot of urine.
Dee‘s best line, “Let’s ask in the restaurant if they serve anything without liquid”.
My best was anytime she said “Stop… Stop talking now…I really mean it!” (I hear that a lot from her. It’s a sure sign that I’m on to something.)
Mom intimated that making Dee lose control is a mean thing to do but she’s dead wrong on that one. It’s not like I’m tickling her. That would be abusive.
I just can’t seem to stop talking. Although I am the first one to pull the car over or say “You can’t see a thing with my sweatshirt tied around your waist.” I appreciate her release.
Engaging Muhla Banda is really helpful in circumstances such as these. By contracting the muscles in the pelvic floor, accidents rarely happen and your energy (prana) doesn’t cascade out of you.
Unfortunately for Dee, she had to leave me and race out of the yoga class before that got explained.
But, yogis don’t engage Muhla Banda all the time. Releasing energy is also important.
Laughter is cathartic. It cleanses the system. Tears of laughter are the most delightful and the most joyous.
Alexandra Langstaff 