¶ Actual sentence I uttered the other day: “You can only have a Band-Aid if you have a Legitimate Owie.” LEGITIMATE OWIE. Am I talking to an adult or to a toddler? Half and half, I guess! Having children has rendered my speech patterns entirely nonsensical.
¶ Simone is having her birthday party, as requested, at Hell On Earth! (I have taken some liberties with the name), a local inflatable play area/festival of civil liability. She is wildly excited. My enthusiasm is considerably more muted. I wasn’t going to throw her a non-family birthday party this year, but she is at a new school and the social waters in which elementary students swim are, as I recall, fairly treacherous, and so I am processing my own memories of being tormented by attempting to bribe the classmates of my sweet, social, strange little child into liking her. Which they do already! And yet I have only to call to mind any one of a hundred scenarios from my own youth and imagine Simone in my place to feel immediately and helplessly compelled to offer everyone cake in her name.
¶ Here is a thing I am interested to see: which is worse, being sick at work, or being sick at home with small children? Will the soothing lack of offspring and their attendant requests for water/food/attention compensate for my inability to recuperate on the couch while clad in soft fabrics? I suspect that it will, and I’m about to find out, as I am rapidly developing a dreadful cold. It came upon me suddenly sometime between morning and lunch, so I have no Kleenex and have been alternating between sniffling and wiping my nose with bark-like cafeteria napkins, as befits the glamorous professional woman I am now.
¶ Yesterday I started eine kleine weight training, and all day I have been using the handicapped stall in the bathrooms because I require the rails to lower myself onto the toilet. Lowering myself using my legs is out of the question, as I seem to have broken both of my front thigh muscles; the other option would be to fall backward from a standing position and hope that I land squarely on the seat rather than crumpled shamefully on the tile, and that seems risky. I was ten minutes late for work this morning because that is how long it took me to traverse the stairs from my apartment on the third floor to my car, which was cruelly at ground level. This happens every time I start working out after one of my customarily lengthy
lazy dormant periods. I get overexcited and overexert, merrily doing weighted lunges for the equivalent of the Earth’s circumference with no thought to future staircase descending/toileting (these actions are performed separately, you understand). I have unilaterally decided to name this ailment Dilettante’s Thigh.
¶ They should have a thing like coffee that is nice and hot to sip and keeps you wide awake and perky but which can be neutralized later by having a single glass of wine. Completely neutralized, so that you sleep like a baby, even if you had the last cup of Not-Coffee at, say, two o’clock in the afternoon. Please get right to work on this and keep me informed of your progress.