You say limp. I say swagger.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
Snakes on a Cane - The Highly Anticipated Sequel
For the past six months, I have been in the market for a new cane. Before my most recent surgery, I didn't want to get a new one, even though mine makes an ungodly clinking noise when I walk and the handle is falling apart faster than my plans for a more robust dating life. I figured that if my gluteus medius got fixed, I eventually would be able to walk unaided and I should save my money for dealing with Vancouver beer prices ($4.50 for a warm PBR! Seriously, people!). But since the reattachment didn't work and I'm still legitimately half-assed, it looks like the cane will be my permanent +1. It's time to upgrade to a better model. Or at least a model that doesn't leave little gummy bits of handle rubber on my palms that resemble snot. (I know. So sexy).
I've been down the cane-buying road before: the cat-themed canes; the sword canes (I can barely manage to not kill people with my regular cane. Lord help us all if I ever get one with a lethal weapon inside); the canes with a silver skull on the handle (unless it shoots lasers from the eyes, not interested); the ones made of lucite or topped with a wolf/eagle/dragon/mudflap girl/dolphin. Seriously, I like dolphins and all, but who likes dolphins enough to put up with brass dorsal fin sticking into your palm every time you try to walk? And also, someone needs to put a disclaimer on those canes that have the mudflap girl on them that if you use one, that's going to be the only naked girl riding on your shaft for the rest of your life. (Too far? Too far.)
No, I attract enough attention walking down the street as it is. What I need is a cane that blends into the background, like some kind of a secret service agent. A cane that says, "I have a permanent disability, so stop asking me if I've sprained my ankle because if I hear the phrase 'Gosh, what did you do to yourself?' one more time I am going to shank someone" while also saying "Oh, and by the way, I'm not 90 years old and can still bring the hotness." A cane that does its job as a mobility aid but doesn't look like a lifestyle choice.
You'd think this would be easy: go online, find a cane that's tall enough and unobtrusive, purchase it and have it arrive to my door thanks to the power of the internets. No. Incorrect. For one, the website design of most online cane stores looks fresh from a Geocities fan page circa 1996 and it's nearly impossible to navigate any of them. Plus, just out of principle, I'm not buying anything from a store that has a GIF of a snowman dancing along the screen or that claims to be marketing its products to the "enfeebled."
The second problem, however, is that I've discovered that most canes have names more suited to sex toys and I cannot take them seriously. Here are some examples:
I've been down the cane-buying road before: the cat-themed canes; the sword canes (I can barely manage to not kill people with my regular cane. Lord help us all if I ever get one with a lethal weapon inside); the canes with a silver skull on the handle (unless it shoots lasers from the eyes, not interested); the ones made of lucite or topped with a wolf/eagle/dragon/mudflap girl/dolphin. Seriously, I like dolphins and all, but who likes dolphins enough to put up with brass dorsal fin sticking into your palm every time you try to walk? And also, someone needs to put a disclaimer on those canes that have the mudflap girl on them that if you use one, that's going to be the only naked girl riding on your shaft for the rest of your life. (Too far? Too far.)
No, I attract enough attention walking down the street as it is. What I need is a cane that blends into the background, like some kind of a secret service agent. A cane that says, "I have a permanent disability, so stop asking me if I've sprained my ankle because if I hear the phrase 'Gosh, what did you do to yourself?' one more time I am going to shank someone" while also saying "Oh, and by the way, I'm not 90 years old and can still bring the hotness." A cane that does its job as a mobility aid but doesn't look like a lifestyle choice.
You'd think this would be easy: go online, find a cane that's tall enough and unobtrusive, purchase it and have it arrive to my door thanks to the power of the internets. No. Incorrect. For one, the website design of most online cane stores looks fresh from a Geocities fan page circa 1996 and it's nearly impossible to navigate any of them. Plus, just out of principle, I'm not buying anything from a store that has a GIF of a snowman dancing along the screen or that claims to be marketing its products to the "enfeebled."
The second problem, however, is that I've discovered that most canes have names more suited to sex toys and I cannot take them seriously. Here are some examples:
- The Black Mamba
- The Tuxedo Night Stick
- The Blackthorn Premium Knob
- Mylord With Grapes
- The Magician's Wand
- The Regency Scrimshaw Bulb
- The Lady Blowing Horn
- The Alpaca Horn of Plenty
- The Burgandy StripTease (not even kidding)
- The Powder Pink Soft Touch
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Ass Lasers to the Rescue!
If you look at my calendar, you'll see October 20th circled and surrounded by stars, hearts, butterflies and happy faces. No, it's not my birthday (though International Arley Appreciation day comes up on November 15th, so you might want to stock up on some more candles and incense to spruce up your Arley shrine). October 20th is the day that my hip restrictions will finally be over.
Yes, my life is about to get marginally less awkward! No more will I have to explain to passersby on the street that my ass cushion is not a very large, squishy briefcase. No more will I have to say the phrases, "No, I did not sprain my ankle. I had a hip replacement. Yes, I'm very young to have a hip replacement. I'm glad to hear your grandma's doing well after her knee replacement in 2005." No more will I trip random waiters because I have to stick my incredibly long leg out into the aisle when I'm sitting down (although my chances of getting attractive men to land in my lap is now significantly reduced).No more will I forgo dates because visions of cartoon old people in the post-hip-replacement sex manual getting it on are dancing (and by 'dancing' I mean 'f*cking to the point of hip dislocation') in my head.
Yes, there's light at the end of the Tunnel of Hip Replacement Ridiculousness. For the past few years, my diva hip has been the star of the Arley show. First, my hip was subluxing/dislocating/migrating south for the winter and I spent a good year traumatizing my family and friends by having them tug on my leg to put it back in the socket. Then, there was the first hip replacement and the ensuing melodrama and the second hip replacement and the ensuing hours spent in physio getting dating advice from old people. I am now equipped with a full-time post at the Ministry of Silly Walks and a lifetime of jokes about being half-assed.
But while the hip crisis is beginning to go from "Life-Consuming" to "Generally Annoying," other body parts are stepping in for their moment in the sun. For the past two weeks, one of my ribs has been out of alignment, which is causing breathing to be very difficult and is generally making me crankier than a cat at a water park. (How did you pop your rib out of alignment, Arley? Oh...you know...just living the dream).
This means that not only does my poor physio have to teach me how to not walk like a crack zombie, she also has to stand on a stool so she can get enough leverage to push my rib into its home while trying not to push my spinal facets or SI joints out of alignment. Sometimes it feels like my bones were designed by Picasso. Having a Skeleton: You're Doing it Wrong.
Granted, I didn't do myself any favours when I fell down the stairs last Friday, which is the exact thing that the 85-year-olds at physio are always warning me not to do (along with not dating tall men to avoid having daughters with big feet, but that's another story). I got a little cocky and thought, "Since I am the Queen of Recovery, for my next trick I will go downstairs backwards on slippery stairs in equally slippery shoes and that should work out well for me." As I felt myself falling, I panicked, grabbed my crutches, and twisted my hip hard, which caused my semi-detached gluteus medius to swell up to a gluteus maximus.
To calm the swelling and force my body parts to play nice, my physiotherapist pulled out the big guns: lasers. At first, I was worried, since my familiarity with lasers comes from the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers and I am already part evil robot. I was assured, however, that the lasers would calm the swelling and reduce the pain. Bring on the happy lasers! Cut to me, a few minutes later, laying on my side with my pants down as my physio (wearing large eye-shielding goggles reminiscent of the ones old ladies who have had cataract surgery wear to drive) presses the laser into the side of my hip and my ass. Ass lasers to the rescue! Dignity not required! I'm pretty sure this is not the way most people spend their Friday afternoon, but I have to admit that that the lasers did the job. The swelling in my ass had gone down enough by Friday evening to cram myself into skinny jeans. And if skinny jeans aren't a benchmark to recovery, I don't know what is.
Yes, my life is about to get marginally less awkward! No more will I have to explain to passersby on the street that my ass cushion is not a very large, squishy briefcase. No more will I have to say the phrases, "No, I did not sprain my ankle. I had a hip replacement. Yes, I'm very young to have a hip replacement. I'm glad to hear your grandma's doing well after her knee replacement in 2005." No more will I trip random waiters because I have to stick my incredibly long leg out into the aisle when I'm sitting down (although my chances of getting attractive men to land in my lap is now significantly reduced).No more will I forgo dates because visions of cartoon old people in the post-hip-replacement sex manual getting it on are dancing (and by 'dancing' I mean 'f*cking to the point of hip dislocation') in my head.
Yes, there's light at the end of the Tunnel of Hip Replacement Ridiculousness. For the past few years, my diva hip has been the star of the Arley show. First, my hip was subluxing/dislocating/migrating south for the winter and I spent a good year traumatizing my family and friends by having them tug on my leg to put it back in the socket. Then, there was the first hip replacement and the ensuing melodrama and the second hip replacement and the ensuing hours spent in physio getting dating advice from old people. I am now equipped with a full-time post at the Ministry of Silly Walks and a lifetime of jokes about being half-assed.
But while the hip crisis is beginning to go from "Life-Consuming" to "Generally Annoying," other body parts are stepping in for their moment in the sun. For the past two weeks, one of my ribs has been out of alignment, which is causing breathing to be very difficult and is generally making me crankier than a cat at a water park. (How did you pop your rib out of alignment, Arley? Oh...you know...just living the dream).
This means that not only does my poor physio have to teach me how to not walk like a crack zombie, she also has to stand on a stool so she can get enough leverage to push my rib into its home while trying not to push my spinal facets or SI joints out of alignment. Sometimes it feels like my bones were designed by Picasso. Having a Skeleton: You're Doing it Wrong.
Granted, I didn't do myself any favours when I fell down the stairs last Friday, which is the exact thing that the 85-year-olds at physio are always warning me not to do (along with not dating tall men to avoid having daughters with big feet, but that's another story). I got a little cocky and thought, "Since I am the Queen of Recovery, for my next trick I will go downstairs backwards on slippery stairs in equally slippery shoes and that should work out well for me." As I felt myself falling, I panicked, grabbed my crutches, and twisted my hip hard, which caused my semi-detached gluteus medius to swell up to a gluteus maximus.
To calm the swelling and force my body parts to play nice, my physiotherapist pulled out the big guns: lasers. At first, I was worried, since my familiarity with lasers comes from the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers and I am already part evil robot. I was assured, however, that the lasers would calm the swelling and reduce the pain. Bring on the happy lasers! Cut to me, a few minutes later, laying on my side with my pants down as my physio (wearing large eye-shielding goggles reminiscent of the ones old ladies who have had cataract surgery wear to drive) presses the laser into the side of my hip and my ass. Ass lasers to the rescue! Dignity not required! I'm pretty sure this is not the way most people spend their Friday afternoon, but I have to admit that that the lasers did the job. The swelling in my ass had gone down enough by Friday evening to cram myself into skinny jeans. And if skinny jeans aren't a benchmark to recovery, I don't know what is.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Rocking the 2010WWRC
Even when I'm not dealing with a hip re-replacement, I am still the Commander-In-Chief of AwkwardLand. I mean, if someone's going to accidentally light their hair on fire or fall and headbutt someone while trying to give them a hug, it's going to be me. When you add crutches, 16-hour work days, sleep deprivation, alcohol, a diet composed nearly entirely of coffee and the world's largest ass cushion into the equation, I basically become the Ultimate Grand Supreme Champion of Awkwardness and General Ridiculousity.
That was me at the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships, where I've been for the past few weeks working on the communications team. I've extolled the virtues of wheelchair rugby on this blog before and it's hard to describe the 2010WWRC with any other word but "awesome." Awesome rugby. Awesome people. Awesome event. Oh, and free Starbucks. Sweet, sweet Starbucks.
But while I'm a huge fan of wheelchair rugby, I can't say that my Freaky Cyborg Hip was too terribly impressed. The most painful part of recovery is clearly over, but the hip replacement provided endless opportunities for annoyance. It doesn't help that I have the patience of a sugar-high toddler or that I'd spent the past 6 weeks in bed eating frozen grapes and was not exactly used to being out and about.
The really strange part of having a hip replacement is that there are certain things that you physically could do (bending, twisting, crossing legs, etc), but you're not allowed to do them for fear of dislocation. After a few 16-hour work days and (let's be honest) a beer or two, the list of what you are and are not allowed to do becomes a little fuzzy around the edges and you can barely remember your name, let alone whether your air guitar rendition of "Living on a Prayer" is hip-replacement kosher or where you left your damn ass cushion.
Mostly, however, the problem was less pain and more annoyance. Annoyance at trying to balance crutches, an ass cushion and a tray full of Starbucks. Annoyance at having to call my friend C. to come pull my car out of the parking lot after some douche-kabob in an SUV parked so close to me that I couldn't open my door enough to get my left leg in. Annoyance at having to cruise the parking lot for a corner spot to prevent people from parking too close, being unable to find one, and having to park in the wheelchair parking and endure major side-eye from quadriplegics (and rightfully so). Annoyance at every well-intentioned volunteer or passerby or hotel staff who used the phrase "Gosh, you're really good on those there crutches! Bet you could beat me in a race!" or "What did you do to yourself? Sprain your ankle?" Annoyance at having to install a raised toilet seat in our hotel room, thereby turning the bathroom into a death trap for my poor roommate Shelley. Annoyance at trying to "dance" (translation: "moving my knee roughly in time to the music while waving my hands as if trying to put out a fire") on crutches.
That said, I think the trial-by-fire of the 2010WWRC ended up being good for the hip. Every day, the swelling actually reduced and the pain got less. It's also hard to remember you're in pain when you're having such a good time and when you have awesome friends who fly all the way from Illinois to party at the 2010WWRC and who generally rock your world. Besides, am I really going to complain about a semi-detached ass in a room full of quadriplegics?
That was me at the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships, where I've been for the past few weeks working on the communications team. I've extolled the virtues of wheelchair rugby on this blog before and it's hard to describe the 2010WWRC with any other word but "awesome." Awesome rugby. Awesome people. Awesome event. Oh, and free Starbucks. Sweet, sweet Starbucks.
But while I'm a huge fan of wheelchair rugby, I can't say that my Freaky Cyborg Hip was too terribly impressed. The most painful part of recovery is clearly over, but the hip replacement provided endless opportunities for annoyance. It doesn't help that I have the patience of a sugar-high toddler or that I'd spent the past 6 weeks in bed eating frozen grapes and was not exactly used to being out and about.
The really strange part of having a hip replacement is that there are certain things that you physically could do (bending, twisting, crossing legs, etc), but you're not allowed to do them for fear of dislocation. After a few 16-hour work days and (let's be honest) a beer or two, the list of what you are and are not allowed to do becomes a little fuzzy around the edges and you can barely remember your name, let alone whether your air guitar rendition of "Living on a Prayer" is hip-replacement kosher or where you left your damn ass cushion.
Mostly, however, the problem was less pain and more annoyance. Annoyance at trying to balance crutches, an ass cushion and a tray full of Starbucks. Annoyance at having to call my friend C. to come pull my car out of the parking lot after some douche-kabob in an SUV parked so close to me that I couldn't open my door enough to get my left leg in. Annoyance at having to cruise the parking lot for a corner spot to prevent people from parking too close, being unable to find one, and having to park in the wheelchair parking and endure major side-eye from quadriplegics (and rightfully so). Annoyance at every well-intentioned volunteer or passerby or hotel staff who used the phrase "Gosh, you're really good on those there crutches! Bet you could beat me in a race!" or "What did you do to yourself? Sprain your ankle?" Annoyance at having to install a raised toilet seat in our hotel room, thereby turning the bathroom into a death trap for my poor roommate Shelley. Annoyance at trying to "dance" (translation: "moving my knee roughly in time to the music while waving my hands as if trying to put out a fire") on crutches.
That said, I think the trial-by-fire of the 2010WWRC ended up being good for the hip. Every day, the swelling actually reduced and the pain got less. It's also hard to remember you're in pain when you're having such a good time and when you have awesome friends who fly all the way from Illinois to party at the 2010WWRC and who generally rock your world. Besides, am I really going to complain about a semi-detached ass in a room full of quadriplegics?
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Back in the Saddle Again
I have just four words to describe my first post-surgical outing to the PNE:
Deep.
Fried.
Oreos.
Yes!
Okay, I would have to step down as the Crown Princess of Verbosity if that was my entire post, but luckily there's a lot more to say on the subject. I'm not sure what lead me to think, "Gee, I have been in bed for a month straight and have had major surgery, so I should really ease myself back in to the land of the living by going to Vancouver's largest summer fair on a long weekend along with thousands of other people who would shank your mother for the last mini-donut....for 8 hours."
Actually, that particular thought process was caused by a few key factors:
1) I'm kind of a moron when it comes to gauging my tolerance for things.
2) I heard the siren song of the funnel cake in all its deep-fried, powdered-sugary-y seductiveness. Also: the siren song of the cotton candy, the poutine, the fresh-squeezed lemonade, the donairs, and (of course) the deep-fried oreos. It was a veritable siren-song doo-wop group.
3) It was a chance to spend time with several of the friends I still have in Vancouver. Plus, sometimes you've just got to give your hip a little pat and say, "Okay, hip. You've been in the driver's seat for the past month, but now it's time to scootch over to the passenger's seat and buckle up tight because I'm about to rev the engine."
The problem with going places post-hip-replacement is not the walking, though granted that sucks quite a bit. No, the real issue is sitting. There are many different shows at the PNE (the horse jumping....the Chinese acrobats...the SuperDogs...the random guy in a booth who spray-paints a Hummer about 8 million times a day then cleans it with some special cleaning product and progressively gets more loopy as the spray paint fumes get to him) and all of these shows require sitting on hip-precaution-breaking seats. I therefore had to travel with a chaperone: my huge-ass hip replacement cushion.
I thought I was being crafty by shoving the hip-replacement cushion into a backpack. The problem: getting it in and out of the backpack was harder than squeezing my ass into skinny jeans. It was literally a two-person job. Maybe my hip-replacement cushion had also been snacking on some deep-fried oreos, because as the day progressed, it got harder and harder to wrestle it into the bag. Worse: the person who ended up helping me was Shira and Jeff's friend C., who I barely know, and whose system has not built up a tolerance to my usual level of ridiculousness. (He was, thankfully, very nice about the whole thing). Nothing like the phrase "Hi, nice to meet you. Want to spend part of your relaxing weekend help me shove an ass cushion roughly the width of your grandma's Laz-E-Boy into this backpack 8 or 10 times a day?" to really make an impression. Really good way to meet people in Vancouver.
Still, it's good to know that I'm easing my way back into the saddle (the metaphorical saddle...the literal saddle would break hip precautions). Giddyup!
Deep.
Fried.
Oreos.
Yes!
Okay, I would have to step down as the Crown Princess of Verbosity if that was my entire post, but luckily there's a lot more to say on the subject. I'm not sure what lead me to think, "Gee, I have been in bed for a month straight and have had major surgery, so I should really ease myself back in to the land of the living by going to Vancouver's largest summer fair on a long weekend along with thousands of other people who would shank your mother for the last mini-donut....for 8 hours."
Actually, that particular thought process was caused by a few key factors:
1) I'm kind of a moron when it comes to gauging my tolerance for things.
2) I heard the siren song of the funnel cake in all its deep-fried, powdered-sugary-y seductiveness. Also: the siren song of the cotton candy, the poutine, the fresh-squeezed lemonade, the donairs, and (of course) the deep-fried oreos. It was a veritable siren-song doo-wop group.
3) It was a chance to spend time with several of the friends I still have in Vancouver. Plus, sometimes you've just got to give your hip a little pat and say, "Okay, hip. You've been in the driver's seat for the past month, but now it's time to scootch over to the passenger's seat and buckle up tight because I'm about to rev the engine."
The problem with going places post-hip-replacement is not the walking, though granted that sucks quite a bit. No, the real issue is sitting. There are many different shows at the PNE (the horse jumping....the Chinese acrobats...the SuperDogs...the random guy in a booth who spray-paints a Hummer about 8 million times a day then cleans it with some special cleaning product and progressively gets more loopy as the spray paint fumes get to him) and all of these shows require sitting on hip-precaution-breaking seats. I therefore had to travel with a chaperone: my huge-ass hip replacement cushion.
I thought I was being crafty by shoving the hip-replacement cushion into a backpack. The problem: getting it in and out of the backpack was harder than squeezing my ass into skinny jeans. It was literally a two-person job. Maybe my hip-replacement cushion had also been snacking on some deep-fried oreos, because as the day progressed, it got harder and harder to wrestle it into the bag. Worse: the person who ended up helping me was Shira and Jeff's friend C., who I barely know, and whose system has not built up a tolerance to my usual level of ridiculousness. (He was, thankfully, very nice about the whole thing). Nothing like the phrase "Hi, nice to meet you. Want to spend part of your relaxing weekend help me shove an ass cushion roughly the width of your grandma's Laz-E-Boy into this backpack 8 or 10 times a day?" to really make an impression. Really good way to meet people in Vancouver.
Still, it's good to know that I'm easing my way back into the saddle (the metaphorical saddle...the literal saddle would break hip precautions). Giddyup!
Monday, August 30, 2010
Not Taking This Sitting Down
I apologize for the radio silence. I hope no one thought that I had been attacked by a gang of rogue physio oldsters agitated into a jealous rage over my progress at physio. (Don't worry. I keep a bag of lint-covered peppermints in my pocket for such an occasion). No, the reason for my absence is that even though my ass is pretty much still stuck in bed, the power of the internets means that I'm kept on my toes by work, socializing (hey, Skype counts as socializing) and various internships.
Right now, two things are keeping my bed's ass groove firmly indented:
This week, however, I've finally received the motivation I need to leave the comfort of my room: my friend S., who recently moved to Vancouver from Australia to do a four-month internship. She was staying at my place for awhile and I'm assuming that she did not move halfway around the world to get the grand tour of my favourite daytime reality TV shows. It was time to put on my big girl pants and head out into the real world.
S. moving to Vancouver, by the way, is all part of my master plan. See, I have a great many talents: picking things up with the toes on my right foot (they are like monkey toes!); making French buttercream; injecting business correspondence with the appropriate dash of "You Attitude." The list goes on. But meeting new people? Not really a strong suite. Nine times out of 10, I will knock something over with my elaborate hand gestures and the person will assume I have a meth addiction. Solution: Bring all my old friends to Vancouver! (Are you listening, people of Champaign-Urbana?)
Granted, S. and I did spend a significant amount of time watching Dexter re-runs online. But I also went on my first real post-surgical excursion....to the Richmond Night Market. Why I thought that I should take my first non-physio-or-doctor-related trip at a place jammed with thousands of jostling and shoving people, many of whom are carrying squid on pointy sticks, I don't know. I do know, however, that I was able to maneuver past the stalls that specialize in handmade false eyelashes, past the accupuncturist who boasted of his ability to cure "Human Pain," past the snake exhibit and the rows of LED-lighted T-shirts that light up in time to music, past the stand after stand carrying delicious dim-sum goodness and potato chips on sticks. I tasted victory and it tasted like chocolate-pudding bubble tea!
The next day, I even went to my friend T's house with S. (and my ass cushion) to eat a delicious dinner and fawn over her cats. For ages I've had a standing appointment with my bed and suddenly I've sprung back into action. Make way, real world. I'm slowly creeping my way back towards you.
Right now, two things are keeping my bed's ass groove firmly indented:
- The whole "brand, spanking new hip joint makes sitting and standing painful" thing, plus the fact that hip restrictions make doing cool things less cool (we all remember the sex manual, yes?).
- I know very few people in Vancouver (or, at least, very few people who I can't guilt trip into coming to visit me), which gives me little-to-no incentive to put on clothing that did not come courtesy of my former national team's Nike sponsorship. (Hey, no one said that the 'it' in "Just Do It" couldn't refer to eating frozen grapes while watching Alton Brown teach you how to cook a perfect porterhouse steak). I mean, if you're going to spend 15 minutes wrestling your jeans on with a grabber, you should probably go somewhere better than "to the mall to look at clothing you cannot try on without the aforementioned grabber, thus filling you with the rage of small animals."
- Lug around an ass cushion 4 times the size of your laptop, which is great fun when you're still walking on crutches.
- Lay the ass cushion on a chair, though the fact that it is bigger than the surface of the chair will almost guarantee that it will fall off at some point in time.
- Try to lower yourself (without breaking hip precautions!) on to the chair. When the ass cushion falls off or slides out from under you, you will not be able to adjust it without breaking hip restrictions or reaching for your grabber. Since you do not want to ask someone to reach between your legs and give your ass cushion a good yank, you will settle for riding a four-inch-thick square of foam side saddle.
- Perch on the terribly askew ass cushion with your bad leg stuck out and your back jammed against the backrest so that the bones of your spine are bruised, requiring you to stick one hand behind your back between your spine and your backrest, like Napoleon in reverse.
- Realize that you look like some sort of broken life-sized marionette.
- Or like a contestant on America's Top Geriatric Model. (The only people who sit worse than I do are models in fashion magazines. I suspect they, too, are plagued by the scourge of ass bruising).
- Or like some sort of gout-stricken king after feasting on an entire roast pig and swilling jugs of mead.
This week, however, I've finally received the motivation I need to leave the comfort of my room: my friend S., who recently moved to Vancouver from Australia to do a four-month internship. She was staying at my place for awhile and I'm assuming that she did not move halfway around the world to get the grand tour of my favourite daytime reality TV shows. It was time to put on my big girl pants and head out into the real world.
S. moving to Vancouver, by the way, is all part of my master plan. See, I have a great many talents: picking things up with the toes on my right foot (they are like monkey toes!); making French buttercream; injecting business correspondence with the appropriate dash of "You Attitude." The list goes on. But meeting new people? Not really a strong suite. Nine times out of 10, I will knock something over with my elaborate hand gestures and the person will assume I have a meth addiction. Solution: Bring all my old friends to Vancouver! (Are you listening, people of Champaign-Urbana?)
Granted, S. and I did spend a significant amount of time watching Dexter re-runs online. But I also went on my first real post-surgical excursion....to the Richmond Night Market. Why I thought that I should take my first non-physio-or-doctor-related trip at a place jammed with thousands of jostling and shoving people, many of whom are carrying squid on pointy sticks, I don't know. I do know, however, that I was able to maneuver past the stalls that specialize in handmade false eyelashes, past the accupuncturist who boasted of his ability to cure "Human Pain," past the snake exhibit and the rows of LED-lighted T-shirts that light up in time to music, past the stand after stand carrying delicious dim-sum goodness and potato chips on sticks. I tasted victory and it tasted like chocolate-pudding bubble tea!
The next day, I even went to my friend T's house with S. (and my ass cushion) to eat a delicious dinner and fawn over her cats. For ages I've had a standing appointment with my bed and suddenly I've sprung back into action. Make way, real world. I'm slowly creeping my way back towards you.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
On the Cat Walk. On the Cat Walk, Yeah.
One of the few times I leave the house these days is to go on my physio-prescribed walks around the neighbourhood. Seeing as how I live on the mean streets of New Westminster, (we might get turn-of-the-century-small-town-charmed to death), it's lucky that my mom and I have protection during these excursions: my guard cat Mika, who insists on joining us for every single walk. I think it's safe to say that no baby bunnies or starlings will be harassing us while Mika's on patrol.
This is therefore the sight that the good people of New Westminster see as I pass every day: me, shuffling along with my crutches, wearing baggy workout clothing and a pair of stained MaryJanes because they're the only shoes that don't a) give me blisters or b) require the use of a "sock aid" and shoe horn to put on, glasses askew, hair looking like that of a Barbie doll that's spent years in the bottom of atoybox , calling out every once in awhile to my cat to cajole her into coming out from a hedge and reminding her that she's a "good girl." I could not look more like a psychiatric-ward patient if I put on a tinfoil hat or one of those apocalyptic-themed sandwich boards. Step right up, boys. Can I interest anyone in a copy of my post-surgical sex manual? Anyone? Not all at once.
During my first hip replacement, Mika lived with A. I had worried that she would be a tripping hazard or that she would jump up on my freshly operated-on hip and thought it best that she stay with someone who could lavish her with the attention she deserves. This time, however, I didn't have a choice in the matter. And sure enough....Mika's a tripping hazard and jumps up on my freshly operated-on hip. Actually, she doesn't so much 'jump up on' my hip as she does 'stand on me and dig her tiny paw right into my hip in her efforts to reach over my body to drink from my water glass on the bedside table, which often results in me being woken up not only by the pain of having 10 pounds of cat foot on a place that was recently sliced and diced, but also by the clunking noise of Mika trying to free herself from the water glass that she's gotten her head stuck in.
Mika is also making it difficult to keep my hip restrictions. When she comes for walks, I'm always tempted to turn around to see where she is (I do my little turn on the cat walk), especially when she meows at me when I get too far ahead. Turning is a major hip-replacement no no because you can't twist from your hip.Mika also likes to rub her face on my crutches to claim them as her own (uh...you can have them, cat), which causes her to weave in and out of my unsteady feet.
Worse, she's unable to read the "I just had major surgery" memo, so she doesn't understand why I can't reach down to pet her while she's on the floor, or why I can't pick her up or why I take a really long time to shuffle over to the sink to turn on the tap so she can have a drink. It's one thing to be frustrated because you can't pick up your pants from the floor. It's another to have your little cat rolling on the floor in front of you as if to say, "Don't I look cute? Wouldn't you like to just break your hip precautions and risk possible prosthesis loosening and/or dislocation just once by reaching down to scratch me under the chin?"
All that aside, it's really good to have Mika here. There are few things in this world that a purring cat doesn't cure. Okay, actually there are a lot of things that a purring cat won't cure, (gluteus medius detachment, for example), but she is damn good at relieving the melancholy that comes from weeks spent in bed watching reality TV shows about American prisons.
This is therefore the sight that the good people of New Westminster see as I pass every day: me, shuffling along with my crutches, wearing baggy workout clothing and a pair of stained MaryJanes because they're the only shoes that don't a) give me blisters or b) require the use of a "sock aid" and shoe horn to put on, glasses askew, hair looking like that of a Barbie doll that's spent years in the bottom of atoybox , calling out every once in awhile to my cat to cajole her into coming out from a hedge and reminding her that she's a "good girl." I could not look more like a psychiatric-ward patient if I put on a tinfoil hat or one of those apocalyptic-themed sandwich boards. Step right up, boys. Can I interest anyone in a copy of my post-surgical sex manual? Anyone? Not all at once.
During my first hip replacement, Mika lived with A. I had worried that she would be a tripping hazard or that she would jump up on my freshly operated-on hip and thought it best that she stay with someone who could lavish her with the attention she deserves. This time, however, I didn't have a choice in the matter. And sure enough....Mika's a tripping hazard and jumps up on my freshly operated-on hip. Actually, she doesn't so much 'jump up on' my hip as she does 'stand on me and dig her tiny paw right into my hip in her efforts to reach over my body to drink from my water glass on the bedside table, which often results in me being woken up not only by the pain of having 10 pounds of cat foot on a place that was recently sliced and diced, but also by the clunking noise of Mika trying to free herself from the water glass that she's gotten her head stuck in.
Mika is also making it difficult to keep my hip restrictions. When she comes for walks, I'm always tempted to turn around to see where she is (I do my little turn on the cat walk), especially when she meows at me when I get too far ahead. Turning is a major hip-replacement no no because you can't twist from your hip.Mika also likes to rub her face on my crutches to claim them as her own (uh...you can have them, cat), which causes her to weave in and out of my unsteady feet.
Worse, she's unable to read the "I just had major surgery" memo, so she doesn't understand why I can't reach down to pet her while she's on the floor, or why I can't pick her up or why I take a really long time to shuffle over to the sink to turn on the tap so she can have a drink. It's one thing to be frustrated because you can't pick up your pants from the floor. It's another to have your little cat rolling on the floor in front of you as if to say, "Don't I look cute? Wouldn't you like to just break your hip precautions and risk possible prosthesis loosening and/or dislocation just once by reaching down to scratch me under the chin?"
All that aside, it's really good to have Mika here. There are few things in this world that a purring cat doesn't cure. Okay, actually there are a lot of things that a purring cat won't cure, (gluteus medius detachment, for example), but she is damn good at relieving the melancholy that comes from weeks spent in bed watching reality TV shows about American prisons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)