As my friends and family will tell you, I have trouble finishing things. Oh heck, maybe you’ve noticed, too. Upon second thought, yeah, you probably have. Noticed, that is.
Yes, I’m a procrastinator. But I take it further than that…
I procrastinate WHILE doing it, whatever *it* is.
This time, it began with my hair. It was my Step 1. Or Step One. I can’t remember. Point is it’s the first thing on a list. I wrote about it here.
The next step was to be exercise because that very day — yes, that VERY day — I had decided that beginning the next day, after work, I would begin to walk my neighborhood. I had the route all mapped out, too. I would go up the street, around the park and back home. Not too long… just right to begin because I had, alas, stopped any meaningful exercise. As in none. Zero. Nada. It was the end of April and the perfect time, weather-ly speaking in Southern Ontario.
The best-laid plans and all that jazz because the very next morning, I awoke to … hmmm… what’s that?… scratchy throat?… no!… it was more than that… it was deep down and felt swollen… and… before I could voice my thoughts… I HAD NO VOICE. Also, I felt like dying. (Or is that dieing? It’s not, right? That isn’t even a word. It’s just one of those English word thingies that makes absolutely no sense. Dying hair is dye with a “ye”. To die is “ie”. So, to dye your hair should be dying and to die like expire should be dieing or diing or ding, which is (of course) the sound a bell makes. Silly English. Yes, I digress.)
So, I was out for the count, which in this case was three solid weeks with another week to pull myself together except, whaddya know, it wasn’t over yet. To add a wrinkle, my husband then got what I had and twisted it around to something else and both of us were sicker than dogs at the same time.
Then I felt a little better and went to the doctor for a recheck of my lungs and my yearly physical. I wrote about that, too but left off the part where I had a wicked reaction to one of the vaccines. It hurt like the dickens and was getting swellier and redder and ouchier by the moment. The clinic doc drew a line around the redness and swelling with a ballpoint pen (this was on Saturday, the shot was on Thursday). He told me to fill the antibiotic he gave me if it went beyond the lines by the next day. As you can see, it did. And continued for another day until it stopped growing.
At one point, this hypochondriac wondered if she had a flesh-eating disease. Yes, seriously. And yes, I’ve lapsed into third-person which is never a good sign.
I swear! In fact, I think I will: Shit, hell and damn!
So, my husband was off work for ten days and I was out of work for three weeks and we both were a freaking mess and where did May go?
Somewhere in there, I decided that working was not working for me. Yet, that’s not exactly true … but you know that already if you’ve read this post.
So. Fast forward. Are we well yet? Mostly. Kinda. My arm has one little tiny hot spot left, literally, about the size of the original shot itself. We’ve both finished our antibiotics.
My husband has this week off and he’s trying to catch up on sleep, which is what I’ve been doing for the last two weeks. He’s having a nap right now, actually.
I’ve been slowly getting back to some semblance of normal. I’ve been cleaning out bookshelves and cosmetics drawers and stovetops and stuff I’ve ignored for the last two years-ish.
So, here we are.
I know this will sound dumb, but it suddenly occurred to me that nobody will be paying me. Well, damn. I should have thought of that before. Der. Actually, I had, but I was too sick to care. Now that I’m better… yeah… maybe should have considered that.
So, I guess I’ll have to figure out a way to make money. No guessing about it, actually. Maybe I’d better finish that best seller I’ve been writing, eh?
So, my Step 2 (or Step Two)… I no longer know what it should be because ***this*** is what I do when I get confuzzled.
Is it procrastination? Am I anxious? Depressed? Angry? Resentful? And why did I even bring up anger and resentment? Am I angry? Am I resentful?
Or maybe I’m just trying to get out of the cycle of being ill. Maybe it just takes time.
Or maybe I’m just making excuses. I’m very good at that. Very good.
I’m probably being too hard on myself. I’m also very good at that. Or am I making excuses?
See what I mean?
Sometimes – like now – it ain’t easy being me.