The other day, I pulled a muscle in my back that hurt every time I tried to take a deep breath. I spent 24 hours thinking I might have covid, or kidney stones, or worse.
As it turned out, it was plain old muscle strain. One good application of Icy Hot, a dose of Aleve (generic versions of both, actually - what am I, made of money?), and I was right as rain.
The other thing that helped me catch my breath, finally, were the results of the election.
Now, I know not everyone believes it's over. There are some lawsuits, recounts, etc. pending. But mathematically, stick a fork in it - we're done.
My guy won. Well, basically. My guy was actually Pete Buttigieg, who stumped tirelessly for President-Elect Biden. My hope is that Mayor Pete ends up in the administration. I'd like to see him as Secretary of State, or Veterans Affairs, or Education. Eventually, I'd like to see him as President. But one step at a time, y'all. My guy, meaning, the democratic candidate, won. And I like Biden a lot. So, woot.
I mean, let's celebrate that the daughter of an Indian woman and Jamaican man is going to be our VP. And not just because it means I can make an awesome menu for the inauguration. But I can, btw - and I will. Rice and Peas? Please! Masala, samosas? Patties? Yeah.
Clearly, I've been eating my feelings. And other people's feelings too.
So many feelings.
I finally committed to going to Atlanta for Thanksgiving. Matt is going to stay here, most likely - because, Covid. Once we get through that, I'm willing to talk about Christmas - sort of. I was thinking that I may suggest to Matt we give ourselves the gift of new chairs for the deck - the inexpensive set we bought in 2006 started dry rotting last summer, and we lost the last one a few weeks ago. Which is worse than you would think - I work outside enough that it's become a hassle to move an uncomfortable folding chair in and out of the house on a daily basis. I've tried using the washing machine as a standing desk, but the height is way off. I need to get back to an office, dammit.
And that may happen as soon as the middle of January. There are no guarantees in life, but it's looking more likely.
Meanwhile, work is good - I'm kind of pulling work from the endless all-you-can-eat buffet of what needs to be done. The big one for the moment is some test prep with a newish employee. I feel like I may be a half step ahead of her in understanding the processes, but sometimes, that's enough.
Piper has been restless the past few weeks. She wants to be outside ALL THE TIME which I totally get - but did I mention I have no great seating options? So, we compromise, like you do.
Sometime next week, I
have to get to go back to my doctor's office for more blood work - gotta recheck my white blood cell count level. I don't think it's any big deal - they were mildly elevated, but it might explain my fatigue. Because my thyroid is normal, and my vitamin D levels are just a touch below normal.
I just want to nap every day, and I can't seem to shake it. I think that may be lack of stimuli, but who knows?
It is bizarrely, unseasonably warm here this week. Like high 70s in November. I am in shorts today. And again, it's No to the Vember.
There's a poem by Thomas Hood called No!, and it talks about all the things missing in November; things like flowers, sunshine, socialization. I put it in a company wide email for work, and almost instantly someone wrote me to tell me that's a poem about death. Maaaaaybe? Death of a season, maybe - but no, I don't really think it is. I read up and it was written specifically on a day in November in Englad that was so fogged over, the writer was struck by it and couldn't go outside, so... I wrote back to tell her I could see her point, but honestly? Don't be playing armchair critic to a poem I've known since I was a child.
If you want to read it - and you know you do:
I'd be curious what other people think - I think a guy is bummed about ennui and weather. A colleague thinks it's about death. I'm sure someone could divine out some Christ imagery. Or sexual overtones. Whatever. Poetry, and really literary analyses were never my thing. I remember reading a poem for an AP Exam - The Centaur by May Swenson - that involved a girl who pretended a tree branch was her horse, and afterward, several people commenting on the sex imagery of the stick. And I remember thinking either they were pervs, I was an idiot - or both. Probably both. I mean, I can make "that's what she said" jokes with the rest of them, but sometimes a girl on a stick horse is just a... yeah, you know what - maybe that is sexual.
Anyway. This week's work email includes no poetry - just talks a little about Thanksgiving.
But I'm sure you could read into that.