(scuze me while I put a piece of a post-it note over the Jillian Michaels ad in the sidebar…she’s glaring at me for the potato soup i had for lunch. Piss off ya hipless witch. And for God’s sake stop wearing those pants that look like they’re about to slide off and expose your cooch. You look like a tart.)
Ok where was I…oh I hadn’t even started yet. Ok so…enforced inactivity is ANNOYING. So in an attempt at livelyness I set up a Vince Guaraldi channel on Pandora and now I’ll all finger-snappy and got some energy! Awesome piano jazz! He’s the guy who wrote all the Peanuts jazz in the Charlie Brown specials and I flamin LOVE this stuff!
And of course, I could be doing mild activities around the house, feminine things like removing dust bunnies from bookcases and perhaps alphabetizing the spice rack. I could even be painting a watercolor picture of a bird and lifting nothing heavier than a coffee cup. However this morning I read (finally) the post-procedure instructions from the doctor, and it said something about ‘resume daily activities as able’ and I totally took that to mean it was FINE to go outside and dig a hole. Now JerseyChick, before you plotz, I had #4 help. He did the heavy lifting. And now my lovely, lovely Golden Celebration rose is in the ground, watered and mulched and ready to start makin’ me some big, fat, fragrant gold roses. Like this:
See, my father had this philosophy about infirmity when I was growing up. That is, you’re allowed to be sick one day. 24 hours, and that’s it. Anything more is malingering and Unacceptable. He was able to enforce this until I came down with mononucleosis in the 8th grade, and was put on 1 month bed rest. boy that killed him,nearly. Me, looking perfectly fine to his eyes, no spots or raging fever, nothing tangible that he could look at and say “it’s sick” with conviction. Just my 13 year old self,feeling puny (punyness was definitely frowned on) and sipping hot tea for my (apparently but he was unable to confirm beyond my admonitions)sore throat. He could have handled it much better if I was wearing a cast on my leg or something. Every day he’d walk by and grump something about how I didn’t look that sick. Mom protected me tho,by waving the paper with the Dr’s orders on it and putting her foot down. “Backoff Arvle! do you want her sick for the rest of her life?” This was right about the time the correlation between mono and Epstein-Barr was coming out.
I inherited that philosophy. I try hard to rein it in. I think with the rest of the family I do a pretty good job, but with myself I have a very hard time tolerating inactivity, and I do NOT like being told I can’t do anything I want. And what I want, when I can’t, is exactly what I am not supposed to be doing. When I had my hip replaced 3 year ago,I wanted nothing more than to be able to cross my legs and climb stairs. Now, after this most recent procedure, I want to lift and carry heavy things, dig holes,plant stuff. I could go 6 months and never lift a heavy thing and not care one bit. But now, when I’m not really supposed to, that’s what I want to do the most.
And it’s even worse when I’m here at the house by myself, with no friend to say “Sit DOWN.” Or husband to ductape me to a chair. It’s just me, going “I feel ok. That rose isn’t going to plant itself you know. It’s not a huge hole I need, and that bag of manure isn’t that heavy. it’s not like I’m digging a trench or anything. And it’s sandy soil,easy and soft.” and then I imagine Terry’s reaction when he gets home and sees that the rose has been planted. He’ll sigh, call me Arvleina, and tell me he’s not going to listen to any complaining if something hurts.
But at least the rose is planted.