You may think it’ll all be easy after the holidays but no. Instead you’re right away dealing with all new challenges – like I was that New Year’s when the hot water heater turned everyone’s shower a lurid Book-of-Exodus red.
The truth is, our troubles are never behind us, and today’s often pale in comparison to tomorrow’s.
I’ve been inwardly whining for the last three months about the back pain I have on account of how the toy blocks of my little spine got stacked slightly off-kilter when God was knitting me up in my mother’s womb. I didn’t even know I had this problem until at one point about three years ago I started noticing that the zippers on my all my pants were zigging up in a northwesterly direction while the central seams on all my tops were zagging northeasterly. “What kind of cheap clothes are THESE?” I first thought. But a young friend, advised about this new condition, narrowed his eyes in assessment of my form and helped me better understand the issue.
“I see it” he cried, cheerily gesturing. “Your skirt is here and your top is over here!” They call it scoliosis. Anyway I dealt with this pain throughout the whole run-up to Christmas, even as I went about buying all the gifts, cooking all the food, addressing all 220 cards, etc.
But then the holiday passed and boy, was I psyched! One of those first post-Christmas nights, I found myself alone for the evening, always a cozy thing, and to celebrate this new lack-of-all-stress, I decided to take a long soak in a foamy bath.
While drinking a foamy Kahlua mudslide.
And watching The Interview on my laptop, which I had set up on the clothes hamper not four feet from the suds.
“I’m on Easy Street NOW!” I exulted.
And so I seemed to be until oh, about 30 minutes later when I climbed into my bed with its fresh clean sheets, sank back into the pillows – and felt settle into my body the worst virus I have ever had.
First, there was fever. Next, there were two whole days lost to memory, slept through entirely. And then, on Day Three, Fate poured five pounds of concrete into my sinuses.
The concrete remains.
With nose breathing impossible. I spend night after night moaning softly when, according to my mate, I’m not making noises like a wild animal.
He is sympathetic though, except for the way he laughed out loud to find my semi-conscious self beside with a wet facecloth stuffed in my mouth to moisten a tongue so dry it turned white. More moaning! – though the moaning sounds more like the underwater call of a whale.
But there is this, Dear Reader, there is this: In the whole two-weeks-and-counting of this cold and virus misery, I haven’t been aware of so much as a tremor of pain in my lower back. Joy snatched from suffering! I just know I’m on Easy Street now!