Who I Don’t Want to Be, Memory and the Crotch Rocket

 

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Why does the whole business of living have to be so difficult?  I don’t want to end up one of those bitter, wrinkly dried up old bitties who have nothing better to do than give me the stink-eye in the locker room because I’m not an old bitty wanting to shoot the shit, but I am in the pool at 5:30, and therefore invading “her” space.  I find myself getting close to that stink-eye to the world mindset sometimes though, and it scares me.  I get pissed at myself because I’m not much of a risk taker, and because I usually don’t have the courage to be anything more than a tired old door mat.  Always cordial, always concessionary, always blending into the scenery.  Stealth and avoiding confrontations are survival skills I’ve cultivated since childhood.  Most of the time avoiding conflict and/or scrutiny are exactly what I’m aiming to do in the first place.

The past should remain in the past- and I’m usually pretty good at not letting those vexing whirlwinds of emotions get to me- but there’s one person who can conjure a tempest in my heart every time.  Being insanely in love with anyone, regardless of how compelling he is (or was it lust, or simply the novelty and the sweetness of forbidden fruit, who knows,) is completely out of my character.  After 20 years (and then some) it’s time to let sleeping dogs lie and get back to reality, but memory is a hard taskmaster.  Every time I hear from him- and I do still consider him a friend- I end up going down the path of what once was and what could have been and all that noise- even though I can wish in one hand and shit in the other and know which hand is going to fill up first.  There is a plethora of technicalities that I would rather not rehash yet again- all the reasons why and everything that has remained unsaid-they are still the obstacles they have always been, but when all is said and done memory is just that.   Nothing more.

nothing left to say

Even knowing what an exercise in futility such revelries are, it seems as if the further back I go, the more vivid the imagery of memory becomes.  Oh, to have one of those days where I could just sit and watch the wheels go round, (to quote John Lennon) but I have to keep at least one foot grounded here on earth.

As usual, I’ve been too busy, too preoccupied with the business of making it through one day to the next, so when I do get a reminder that there is more to life than getting up, going to work and going to bed, it’s startling.  I’m reminded that I’m still alive, still taking up valuable oxygen, and still haven’t really accomplished jack shit.

Busy is probably better for me than I realize.  At least it’s keeping me out of trouble.

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The illustrious POMC is busy with his latest acquisition- a crotch rocket.  Although I enjoy motorsports, for me it’s pretty much a given that a vehicle involved in motorsports should have four wheels.   I don’t share his enthusiasm for this purchase, and I don’t see myself attempting to ride this beast either.

I know it’s better that old ghosts stay in the past where they belong, though nothing would do me better than an evening and a drink with a friend.  I miss the conversation, strangely enough.  There are precious few people who I really want to converse with alone, one on one.

Maybe I should find some courage and make that a point.  NOT riding the crotch rocket- that’s not happening, but the conversation with an old friend that is long overdue.

 

 

 

 

Humor Me, Breathing is Fundamental, and Anytime is Naptime

I love it.  My granddaughter is already learning the art of the stink-eye.

I think gradually, ever so painfully slowly, my sorry carcass is beginning to get the picture that drowning me in snot is rather counterproductive.  I’ve been on the Allegras for a little over a week and they do seem to help- that along with the saline rinses (now there’s a really fun activity- spraying salt water up your nose to rinse out your sinuses) and the homeopathic nasal spray made from capsaicin (capsaicin is what makes hot peppers hot) that burns like hell right after you spray it-  but it is effective, and at $11 a bottle, I can afford that. So far it’s working better than the steroid sprays that cost $100 + per script and as an added bonus, can give you glaucoma.  I’ve used the steroid sprays before, and they are effective, but I can’t afford them, and since I’m already at risk for glaucoma, I think I’ll steer clear.

Of course, as always, I have a sick sense of humor, even though it has been temporarily stifled by misery and fatigue.  I hate being so tired, but the word “tired” does not capture the depth of the sloggingly slow, painfully apathetic state I’ve been in.  The snots have subsided enough to allow me at least some sleep- but no matter how much sleep I manage to get I feel like I can always use more.  I hate dragging my ass through life.  I would love to wake up hyper- in a good way- with something fun to do that I actually have the energy for.  Maybe I’ve just been sleep deprived for so long that there’s no possible way for me to catch up. 

I do have to go next week and get my blood drawn for labs.  I wonder if yet again something is out of line with my funky-assed body chemistry. In the past I’ve had fatigue caused by low iron (that shouldn’t be an issue since the hysterectomy,) and low potassium (I have to take a supplement for that.)  I’ve had my thyroid stuff checked in the past and it’s been normal, but Grandpa had low thyroid, and he was virtually narcoleptic over it until the Drs found it and started medicating him for it.  Maybe my thyroid has gone south.  It would not surprise me.  I am the repository for most of my family’s genetically transmitted diseases after all.  I can only hope that if that is what’s making me want to sleep 24/7 that they actually run a thyroid test on my blood.  I have no idea which blood panels my new Dr. is going to run.  If I were him I would run everything known to man, because Murphy’s Law would indicate that I have a greater chance than most of having obscure and bizarre anomalies and diseases, especially if they are inherited. 

As a kid it always pissed me off that the world “wastes” so much time sleeping.  Back in the day I could run on four or five hours’ sleep and be wide awake and ready to go.  Now I can sleep on and off for 10-12 hours and still be dead tired.   Perhaps it is a bit of cosmic justice for being so wired as a kid, or punishment for all those years of chugging coffee, chain-smoking and taking all that mail order speed.  Pseudoephedrine and caffeine pills were easily obtained back in the 80’s and 90’s.  I could stay awake for days. Now I wish I could sleep for days, but even then I’d still wake up dead tired.

Maybe I don’t have enough excitement in my life.  Maybe I had too much excitement earlier on, and I’m so jaded I can’t get enthused about very much.  Then again, the odds of waking up with a hot young stud in my bed are next to none.  I wake up with dogs in my bed, but that’s not quite the same.

Clara manages to get herself in the smallest of spaces to sleep- while the other two dogs like to take up as much surface area as possible.

Here’s Lilo- all stretched out as usual.

Sheena doesn’t even try to get into the beds with her bad hips- but she can sleep on the couch- and just about anywhere else.

I force myself to exercise- 30 minutes a day of strenuous cardio most days- and supposedly that’s supposed to make one more energetic.  It’s done wonders for my upper and lower body strength- but not a damned thing for my energy level.  I can go through a workout and then turn right around and go back to sleep.  I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way but it does for me, and some days it takes everything I have to get through 30 minutes.

I think someone could make a killing if they could find a way for people to workout while they sleep.  Just hook me up to the marathon running machine while I’m sleeping.  If I could sleep and run a marathon at the same time, then I would be well on my way to a buff bod.

I’ve always liked the idea of stealth exercise.  Swimming is the closest I’ve ever gotten to it.  You feel great while you’re swimming laps, but don’t realize how much energy you’ve burned up until you get out of the pool.  Unfortunately I don’t have easy access to an indoor pool.  It was nice when I had the “Y” membership but Jerry whined and cried about it every time I went to the “Y,” because every minute I was at the pool was a minute I wasn’t available to fetch beer or otherwise cater to His Nibs. 

To hear him talk about it, I think somewhere back in the reptilian part of his brain he might have thought that other guys were “looking at” me in a bathing suit.  I think it’s funny he assumes that because I’m female that my partially clad body would cause other males to lust, (??? I’m not really lustworthy material by any standard????!!!!) but he fails to realize two very important truths- 1.) I purchase swim attire that affords me the most coverage I can get,  because 2.) there are laws in this country against cruel and unusual punishment.  Subjecting others to the visual of my incredibly pale, scarred skin is just plain nasty- nobody wants to see my stretch marks, surgical scars, varicose veins, burn marks, etc.  If I could find a swim top with sleeves I’d wear that too, so nobody would have to get an eyeful of my meaty arms.  As far as I can see, the visual of me in a bathing suit would motivate projectile vomiting rather than provide fodder for a hand party.