Things That Move
So I sat down with my computer, intending to make lists of things that need to be done, to facilitate better efficiency than I have, to date, been accomplishing in this move. I feel like My Darling Husband has been so absolutely Over-Efficient, that I should compensate by being useless. But then guilt over uselessness sets in and I try to help a little but can't remember what needs to be done. So back to the lists. Or the other things on the computer that distract me. Like Facebook, or Netflix, or eBay, or finding some ridiculousness to blather about so I can continue the vicious cycle of inefficiency, guilt, forgetfulness, and irresponsibility. In my own defense, I did help load a table saw and swept half of the garage. I also spoke to children quite fiercely a time or two in order to extract usefulness from them. Is it just me or is usefulness out of teenage girls as elusive as a good deal on Frye boots? For as little help as I have been in this move, I have to say, they have actually been a huge hindrance. I think it's the discrepancy between what I would consider a room looks like when it's been "completely packed up" and what their view of the thing is. Apparently certain items cannot be boxed. Like dirty socks, and posters of movie characters which will remain unnamed. And collections of things, some unidentifiable, that apparently have too much emotional value to be tucked away even for a few days. I mean, my ENTIRE world is locked up in a swollen Uhaul truck, parked out on the street at this very moment. Every little piece of everything. I even packed all of my underwear, which posed an interesting dilemma this morning when I realized it. I will leave you to wonder about my solution.
My mother and I have had an ongoing discussion about the level of truthfulness in my writing. Apparently I have successfully conveyed to the entire world that my favorite pastime is sitting on the couch in sweatpants, with a giant mug of coffee in my hand and a total disregard for any responsibility to the universe. While this, is in fact, very true, as much as I love to do it, it happens much less often than I have perhaps alluded, and even when it does happen, it is usually followed by a rushed shower and me being late for work, or at least cooking dinner for the family. I guess I realized when I started having to respond to gentle confrontations that I should be contributing to the care and well being of my family, I decided I should look into painting a clearer picture of what I really do. So for the record, while self-deprecation is one of my strongest suits, and partially because I want someone to protest my amazingness (which my Adorable Husband has yet to consider doing), I have to say, most days, I work pretty hard. For a girl. For a girl who is broken. But I DO feel lazy, and pampered and spoiled. Compared to the work that I have been used to doing, cleaning CXT toilets in the forest, or hauling sacks of cement, whole plywood sheets, stacking cinder blocks, pushing 20+ shopping carts uphill in the snow both ways - right now, I have it pretty dang easy. It's almost embarrassing. I mean, I still bust it out when I work, and a seven hour shift at the Buckle may sound posh, but if I stop moving while I am there for one second, I am overcome with the recognition of pain in my left lower quadrant which at this point is perpetually tying my adjacent lower back muscles into knots that pull meanly on the compromised discs that feel as if any second they will just poof out of existence into the growling, burning abyss that is my body and the breathtaking pain that I only get jabs of right now will be eternal and consistent. This is one of the reasons I wasn't much help moving. I have finally grown up enough to admit that the pain is not worth it. I think the hardest thing for me is watching Josh do things that make me actually feel the pain for him - I can't imagine it NOT hurting intensely to lift a box, so it must hurt him too... and I am not helping. I get almost angry that he insists on doing it all when I imagine that we are both in the same amount of pain, but then I remember that except for some aching arms and a twinge of soreness here and there, he isn't. Is it weird that I think that everyone around me hurts as much as I do all the time? It makes me reticent to complain, when I see people who must be suffering just like me moving cheerfully through their days. Even my kids. They do things, move in ways that make me queasy with pain, and I admire them for being so tough. Except that it doesn't hurt them. This pain isn't normal. I hate being broken. I hate being weak. I hate being useless. We keep saying "after surgery...everything will be better, will be easier, will be different..." but what if it isn't, and who knows when and if that life-changing event will occur. At this point I don't have much hope invested into it... Especially when three of our dogs have had surgeries and I am still waiting. I even tried to bribe the vet into doing my hysterectomy. She said no.
Yesterday was my last day of work and I am sad. I will miss it. I am anxious to speed ahead to the point where I am ready for a fire dispatch, or to take on a new job, and at least feel like I am contributing SOMETHING. Other than dinner. In addition to my reasons for not working, Josh makes it much harder for me to force myself into productivity partly because he is worried about me and partly because I will do it wrong. Every time. Inevitably. He has been having night terrors since I told him last week that I wanted to paint the crappy cabinets in the new house - just until we can replace them. The thought of how I will do this and the corners I will cut have been keeping him awake at night. I can imagine that all of our paint supplies could "magically" disappear during the move and I will be once more rendered utterly useless. What I need to do is just write a book, and make a million dollars. Then I will be a contributor. And I can finally justify shopping again. But for now, I'd better go make my lists.
My mother and I have had an ongoing discussion about the level of truthfulness in my writing. Apparently I have successfully conveyed to the entire world that my favorite pastime is sitting on the couch in sweatpants, with a giant mug of coffee in my hand and a total disregard for any responsibility to the universe. While this, is in fact, very true, as much as I love to do it, it happens much less often than I have perhaps alluded, and even when it does happen, it is usually followed by a rushed shower and me being late for work, or at least cooking dinner for the family. I guess I realized when I started having to respond to gentle confrontations that I should be contributing to the care and well being of my family, I decided I should look into painting a clearer picture of what I really do. So for the record, while self-deprecation is one of my strongest suits, and partially because I want someone to protest my amazingness (which my Adorable Husband has yet to consider doing), I have to say, most days, I work pretty hard. For a girl. For a girl who is broken. But I DO feel lazy, and pampered and spoiled. Compared to the work that I have been used to doing, cleaning CXT toilets in the forest, or hauling sacks of cement, whole plywood sheets, stacking cinder blocks, pushing 20+ shopping carts uphill in the snow both ways - right now, I have it pretty dang easy. It's almost embarrassing. I mean, I still bust it out when I work, and a seven hour shift at the Buckle may sound posh, but if I stop moving while I am there for one second, I am overcome with the recognition of pain in my left lower quadrant which at this point is perpetually tying my adjacent lower back muscles into knots that pull meanly on the compromised discs that feel as if any second they will just poof out of existence into the growling, burning abyss that is my body and the breathtaking pain that I only get jabs of right now will be eternal and consistent. This is one of the reasons I wasn't much help moving. I have finally grown up enough to admit that the pain is not worth it. I think the hardest thing for me is watching Josh do things that make me actually feel the pain for him - I can't imagine it NOT hurting intensely to lift a box, so it must hurt him too... and I am not helping. I get almost angry that he insists on doing it all when I imagine that we are both in the same amount of pain, but then I remember that except for some aching arms and a twinge of soreness here and there, he isn't. Is it weird that I think that everyone around me hurts as much as I do all the time? It makes me reticent to complain, when I see people who must be suffering just like me moving cheerfully through their days. Even my kids. They do things, move in ways that make me queasy with pain, and I admire them for being so tough. Except that it doesn't hurt them. This pain isn't normal. I hate being broken. I hate being weak. I hate being useless. We keep saying "after surgery...everything will be better, will be easier, will be different..." but what if it isn't, and who knows when and if that life-changing event will occur. At this point I don't have much hope invested into it... Especially when three of our dogs have had surgeries and I am still waiting. I even tried to bribe the vet into doing my hysterectomy. She said no.
Yesterday was my last day of work and I am sad. I will miss it. I am anxious to speed ahead to the point where I am ready for a fire dispatch, or to take on a new job, and at least feel like I am contributing SOMETHING. Other than dinner. In addition to my reasons for not working, Josh makes it much harder for me to force myself into productivity partly because he is worried about me and partly because I will do it wrong. Every time. Inevitably. He has been having night terrors since I told him last week that I wanted to paint the crappy cabinets in the new house - just until we can replace them. The thought of how I will do this and the corners I will cut have been keeping him awake at night. I can imagine that all of our paint supplies could "magically" disappear during the move and I will be once more rendered utterly useless. What I need to do is just write a book, and make a million dollars. Then I will be a contributor. And I can finally justify shopping again. But for now, I'd better go make my lists.