Monday, September 29, 2014

Plastic Flowers on My Walker

Don't bump me.

"Bump, bump, bump," they say.

There is that moment when you expect pain, that you get a zinger of pain even when it does not come in 'real' life. I read that people who have sympathetic pains are having real zingers of pain when you tell them about it. My sister is like that. So is it cruel to call her to tell her how I hurt?

"Bump, bump, bump." Mike said when he's bent over the open dishwasher door, looking for a spoon. For me, it's a new tripping hazard.

"Bump, bump, bump," Nick had said last night as he'd picked the last of his Legos off the floor when Mike had told him they could make me fall down.

I'm like a fucking ninety-year-old with her walker. No, I'm not trying to call old women fuckers. That's not what I mean, but I need to express some obscenities here because I'm still waiting to get that MRI the doctor ordered and life is hard. I'm not ready to be like a fucking ninety-year-old woman with plastic flowers on the handlebars and an extra Depends in the hideaway compartment of her walker.

My arm is aching. I need to stop and hobble over to the couch to rest for a bit. The cat is lying across the only spot where I can be comfortable.

"Bump, bump, bump," he will say with his eyes.

Thank you for listening, jules

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