As usual, I have an appointment. I think it’s a good idea to get to the appointment. I begged two doctor’s for two weeks to get the referral for said appointment. I’ve looked forward to the appointment. I’ve talked about it to a couple people. I NEED to go to the appointment. I never make it to the appointment.
I misjudged the time it takes to get from point A to point B. I also can’t seem to plan two activities in one day. Mayhem ensues. How am I ever going to run a business again? Or, ever be able to hold a part time job again? I have always been late getting places. I get reprimanded by EVERYONE for my lack of promptness.
To you prompt people out there who show up half an hour early everywhere you go- I will never be a part of your club. If I joined the club, I would be booted out after the first, “I got lost.” No amount of “retraining” will ever get me anywhere on time. It is not conditioning. It is not lack of desire or necessity. I try and try and try and it is too much effort and never a good result.
I have given up on the belief that I’m Superwoman and I can accomplish many things. I’m now Brokenwoman, with the ability to fail with grace and aplomb, right on my face at your feet. Able to trip over five items in true SNL Chevy Chase style and get hurt in the process. To quote my teenage children, “Epic Fail!” I have done more damage to myself physically in the past year than I ever have in my whole life. I used to not have the grace of a gazelle, but I stopped running track after one season as I was the “agony of defeat” athlete.
I learned my lesson, there is no sport for me. Sport equals pain. Walking equals pain. Gardening equals pain. Driving equals pain of all sorts. Living my life equals pain.
Don’t get me wrong, this is not a cry for help. I’m going to live to be 99 years old like my grandmothers before me. Yeah, it’s like that. Fifty five more years. Maybe it will take me that long to figure out why, why, why I must suffer. I don’t deserve this, but what I have learned in 44 years is that some people get what others deserve. My self appointed role of Job sucks, but I can’t seem to get another role.
Can’t I be any Greek female heroine, oh wait, most of them get murdered (I’m sorry sacrificed – Polyxena, “I just killed your brother, wanna get married? Don’t tell any one about my Achilles heel, you shall die for avenging your brother!”) abducted (Helen, “You’re so pretty and I deserve a pretty woman, so I choose to take you and cause a really big war. Wait here in Egypt, stage whisper-‘everyone will think you’re in Troy,'” Europa was carried off by Zeus who was literally full of bullshit,) abducted then murdered (Iphigenia, Somebody killed a pregnant hare and pissed off a goddess, someone has to die and if you want to save Helen, kill Iphigenia) turned into things (monster – Medusa, “It’s not your fault ((punish the victim)) but you’re so beautiful that Poseidon raped you in Athena’s temple so you get transformed into a really alluring snake haired, stoney stared woman with a very short shelf life ((punish the victim thrice))” or spider – Arachne, “I’m so vain about my art that I piss off one goddess with a real sense of humor”) one gets turned into a man to become a mighty warrior (Caenis,) constellations (Andromeda?) Oh yeah, I want to be dead and pixellated up in the sky so I can be stared at by the world after being stripped naked and chained to a rock to be sacrificed by a sea monster on behalf of an angry god (Poseidon.)* Not in this lifetime. Not a lot of feminist help from the Greeks.
*For those of you who can’t follow my freight train of thought, the simplified version of that sentence was,” Can’t I be any Greek female heroine, oh wait, most of them get murdered, abducted, abducted then murdered, turned into things (monster, spider,) transformed into a man or a constellation?” Thirty simple words instead of two hundred fifty six. That should explain it all.
My metal sculptor friends call it, “Oooo shiny.” ADD or ADHD. Most artists have it in one form or another. We see a pretty object and the mind follows the eyes and the body goes with it. It’s a very organic way of living. I’ve got it in a major way plus the anxiety factor that gives the “chicken with its head cut off effect.”
Hemorrhaging thoughts and dropping baby socks, I can’t make it out the door. Don’t think I’m confusing it with OCD. I am chaos incarnate whenever I try to leave my house. Where are my…keys, shoes, papers, wallet, socks, leg brace, arch supports, did I eat? I have to use the bathroom, My period started!!!!!! what if I forget something important, like cash, medical papers, x-rays, what time is it, I should just call and cancel, I’m not going to make it.
My dryer was delivered this morning. I watched the truck drive by five times before I called the company to let them know their driver was lost. 11am became 1:15 by the time we had the door off its hinges and installed in the basement. At 1:30, I met with my Help Me Grow case worker to fill out really, really important paperwork for my daughter. Enter the significant other and feeding Petunia, who just threw her food everywhere, then, I had to clean the liberally applied food, pick up x-rays, bathe and get a changed baby in the car so I could get lost even with the help of the GPS.
Driving forty-five minutes from my rural county to the next county over that has enough cars to have traffic, getting in the express lane that won’t let you off at the appropriate exit because you are stuck in rush hour traffic’s ugly step cousin, (pre rush hour or maybe I should call it the end of school rush era,) then, RUNNING OUT OF GAS, oh yeah, I’m not making this shit up. My car can drive on fumes for 14 miles. I made it 16 miles and got off at the first exit I could find with the great beacon of shell announcing my salvation. I pulled up to the wrong pump, had to move the car to another available pump. The gas tank is on the other side of this car, sigh!
I pushed the button for a receipt it said, see attendant. Did I do something wrong? Did my card give me more gas than was in the account? Do I have to count my pennies, nickels and dimes on the counter in absolute humiliation? Am I going to jail? I wait in line for the unknown, listening to my heart beat in my head. Do I look crazy? I feel crazy? Why am I standing here waiting for what? I get to the head of the line. I abruptly say, “Pump number 12.” She said,”You want a receipt?” “Wha-at? Yes.” I take the receipt and walk out the door, later than I ever was for a piece of paper.
I get back on the highway, NOT the express lane. I find the exit, the driveway is right off the highway. Across the highway is an equally shiny hospital building from the same franchise. I wonder if they have made a tunnel under the highway for the doctors? Are both facilities a mirror of each other? Really? Two huge behemoth hospital complexes. There’s money that I will never touch in that field because I am always going to be a patient.
I park. I walk in with baby in stroller, brace on leg, bag, keys, x-rays and MRI disk, forms. Stare down the greeter who is squinting into the sun glare. “Turn left, elevators are half way down the hall.” I say, “They should give you a visor.” She smiles and says that would be great. Or sunglasses, I think as I roll Petunia down the maze hallway. A zig, then a zag does not a hallway make. Elevator pops out a wheelchair and pusher, I get on then get popped out, a stroller and pusher. I find the office, the doors open automatically, I almost bolt, but the baby has made eye contact with someone in the room, so I have to go in. Appear normal. I wait in line, wondering why I can’t take a number like at the old butcher shops. I have missed my appointment. I was never going to make it. I called twice and left two messages. I should never have left the house yesterday.
Don’t get me wrong, life was giving me props yesterday, It just was not enough.