Today I went to the dermatologist for a rash on my back that's persisted for maybe a year, off and on, on and off...
that's longer than many personal relationships I've been in since my divorce almost 20 years ago.
Where does time fly, when you think you're having fun?
Sometimes I wonder--why did I even marry "him"?
And then I see my 3 kids in all their glorious live-and-learn dysfunctionality, and my 5 grandchildren, who are learning to cope with their own lives (and their own parents--and, I suppose, with me, their crazy grandparent)...and I know why.
The end justifies the means?
And mean, he was, though that is another topic for another day.
Back to this day, and the rash-that-wouldn't-leave...
The doc says it's probably eczema. What did I do differently, he asks...as if bringing it on was my fault.
Was it?
Well, except for the stress shoveled into my life via my career---teaching---plus a few barely-survivable relationships last year with certifiable narcissists----no, doc, nothing new.
Doc says stress doesn't cause or exacerbate eczema.
But while I was there, since he mentioned it whilst looking at my previous records, I had him take a look at a persistent "lesion" on my hand.
Lesion in quotation marks because although it might be questionable, it probably was a buried lead pencil point, accidentally self-inflicted at least a few years ago during a real or perceived adolescent crisis in period 10 (can I get workman's comp for that?) , or maybe it was just a splinter of some other sort.
Does it matter from whence and where it came?
The point was:
I could take it out---or leave it in.
Doc says if it were his, he'd leave it. In fact, he has one in his back, from way back in 3rd grade. He seemed proud of it; he seemed bemused by it.
I was not proud or bemused with mine. It was a source of semi-constant worry.
So here was the point of decision--and indecision.
Can I come back and get it done, doc? I'm not wanting to ruin the remaining week or two of my summer. Monsoon-ish though it was, with more typhoons forecast.
Sure, doc says; I schedule my cuts until 3 p.m.
That doesn't work for me. I get out of the gulag at 4.
So let's cut it out today, doc. And can I still work out at the gym?
Doc frowns. No, no not for a month...no lifting for a month. Just cardio.
Can I row, doc? I use a rowing machine.
Doc frowns again, this time wrinkling his brow: Nothing push-pull. No stress or force or you might blow out your stitch. (Yes; stitch, as in one, on the side of my hand).
Here's where I should have said no, in retrospect.
Because working out at the gym is so much more than schlepping on a treadmill and grunting 30 pounds on a pec press. Working out at the gym makes me feel strong: stronger than those who tried to push me down, both literally and figuratively. Pumping on an elliptical is vastly superior to swallowing pills that promise calm. And lifting weights is far better than lifting liters of wine and nightcaps of anything stronger.
But a part of me said: you're here now, go for it; get it over with; because what IF....what IF.....it's one of those weird skin things like the one that killed your brother-in-law...
or it IS a splinter, but right in the middle of next year's polar arctic spell, when it's blizzarding, it turns into something evil and malignant....or you're sitting there, stranded in your house, and you THINK it's turning into something evil...The Pencil Point that will do you in.
And a part of me said: don't. It's nothing. It's a Number 9 pinpoint in the balloon of skin you call home; it won't deflate you; it's only a tattoo from period 10, so many eons ago...
Maybe it was the doc's double-frown-brow-wrinkle.
Maybe it was the thought of sitting here next winter, alone, nobody to tell me it'll be alright...it's just a tiny pencil point, minding its own business...
Maybe it was my contrary nature, the same nature that made me NOT finish college when I was 18 (because Dad wanted me to) so now I have to work to about twenty years past retirement...
The same contrary nature that caused 19-year-old me to marry the man that my father warned me was no good for me (don't all dads say that? But dad was right, on both counts...)..
Ok, doc. Take it away.
And now, I sit on my couch, and wonder why I said yes.
And I think about: Should I wait the obligatory month to work out? Or should I tempt fate and go back in a day...or two?
I ask others: what would you do?
Knowing, in the end....my decisions....and indecisions....will win out...again....
that's longer than many personal relationships I've been in since my divorce almost 20 years ago.
Where does time fly, when you think you're having fun?
Sometimes I wonder--why did I even marry "him"?
And then I see my 3 kids in all their glorious live-and-learn dysfunctionality, and my 5 grandchildren, who are learning to cope with their own lives (and their own parents--and, I suppose, with me, their crazy grandparent)...and I know why.
The end justifies the means?
And mean, he was, though that is another topic for another day.
Back to this day, and the rash-that-wouldn't-leave...
The doc says it's probably eczema. What did I do differently, he asks...as if bringing it on was my fault.
Was it?
Well, except for the stress shoveled into my life via my career---teaching---plus a few barely-survivable relationships last year with certifiable narcissists----no, doc, nothing new.
Doc says stress doesn't cause or exacerbate eczema.
But while I was there, since he mentioned it whilst looking at my previous records, I had him take a look at a persistent "lesion" on my hand.
Lesion in quotation marks because although it might be questionable, it probably was a buried lead pencil point, accidentally self-inflicted at least a few years ago during a real or perceived adolescent crisis in period 10 (can I get workman's comp for that?) , or maybe it was just a splinter of some other sort.
Does it matter from whence and where it came?
The point was:
I could take it out---or leave it in.
Doc says if it were his, he'd leave it. In fact, he has one in his back, from way back in 3rd grade. He seemed proud of it; he seemed bemused by it.
I was not proud or bemused with mine. It was a source of semi-constant worry.
So here was the point of decision--and indecision.
Can I come back and get it done, doc? I'm not wanting to ruin the remaining week or two of my summer. Monsoon-ish though it was, with more typhoons forecast.
Sure, doc says; I schedule my cuts until 3 p.m.
That doesn't work for me. I get out of the gulag at 4.
So let's cut it out today, doc. And can I still work out at the gym?
Doc frowns. No, no not for a month...no lifting for a month. Just cardio.
Can I row, doc? I use a rowing machine.
Doc frowns again, this time wrinkling his brow: Nothing push-pull. No stress or force or you might blow out your stitch. (Yes; stitch, as in one, on the side of my hand).
Here's where I should have said no, in retrospect.
Because working out at the gym is so much more than schlepping on a treadmill and grunting 30 pounds on a pec press. Working out at the gym makes me feel strong: stronger than those who tried to push me down, both literally and figuratively. Pumping on an elliptical is vastly superior to swallowing pills that promise calm. And lifting weights is far better than lifting liters of wine and nightcaps of anything stronger.
But a part of me said: you're here now, go for it; get it over with; because what IF....what IF.....it's one of those weird skin things like the one that killed your brother-in-law...
or it IS a splinter, but right in the middle of next year's polar arctic spell, when it's blizzarding, it turns into something evil and malignant....or you're sitting there, stranded in your house, and you THINK it's turning into something evil...The Pencil Point that will do you in.
And a part of me said: don't. It's nothing. It's a Number 9 pinpoint in the balloon of skin you call home; it won't deflate you; it's only a tattoo from period 10, so many eons ago...
Maybe it was the doc's double-frown-brow-wrinkle.
Maybe it was the thought of sitting here next winter, alone, nobody to tell me it'll be alright...it's just a tiny pencil point, minding its own business...
Maybe it was my contrary nature, the same nature that made me NOT finish college when I was 18 (because Dad wanted me to) so now I have to work to about twenty years past retirement...
The same contrary nature that caused 19-year-old me to marry the man that my father warned me was no good for me (don't all dads say that? But dad was right, on both counts...)..
Ok, doc. Take it away.
And now, I sit on my couch, and wonder why I said yes.
And I think about: Should I wait the obligatory month to work out? Or should I tempt fate and go back in a day...or two?
I ask others: what would you do?
Knowing, in the end....my decisions....and indecisions....will win out...again....
..In answer to your question... if it was me there's no way I'd wait a month to exercise after having one itty little bitty stitch in my hand!!
