December 09, 2006
In thirty-nine days, I have successfully managed to find some use for my right arm. Although there is still enough pain to warrant a mandatory, twice-a-day whine session, I can now drive a vehicle without scaring the crap out of myself and others. I can also brush my hair and my teeth, much to the appreciation of my significant other, handle a bottle of liquid (i.e. glasses containing large quantities of ice and alcohol) weighing over three ounces and write my name in a fairly legible manner. Conversely, I cannot scratch my back with my right arm, tuck in my shirts or open doors for others.On campus, this latter deficiency adds a touch of enthusiasm to my otherwise boring days. Students often grunt or growl when I do not hold open a door -- they scowl at me as though they deserved such kindnesses. When I said 'hello' in passing, they were the ones to keep their heads down and their ears cemented shut. Besides, I was getting tired of telling every person behind me that I have a bunk arm and thus cannot open doors. It's much more entertaining to listen to their disapproving whispers,
"I, like, have all these, like, books, ya know, and, like, that girl can't just hold the fucking door open?!"
Boo-Hoo, Sally Sue. If you cannot handle the door with your perfectly capable 18-year-old arms than I have no sympathy. I'm sure that the tits hanging out of your scant sweater/coat in30-degree weather coupled with your Cabaret-colored face will cause some boy's eager arm to take over my door-holding on Monday mornings. If that doesn't work, try offering him another blow job.
I also realized that I can no longer brag about pushing 800-pound motorcycles around. Christ, I couldn't even apply enough pressure to fully enforce the brake! I probably shouldn't have taken the time to realize this while standing in line at the Sentry Liquor, though. It's amazing how little sympathy most people have for strangers. The check-out guy just kept eying me up and down, not taking the hint that he should help me out to my car with the thirty-pound bottle of booze I had purchased. Finally, after the chick behind me began to get restless and sighed, I said,
"Yeah, so, ya know, I can barely lift my Thesaurus, let alone all this Captain."
A small light over his head flashed faintly and the dark tunnel of his brain brightened. Thus, for the first time in my life, and perhaps not the last, I was assisted in carrying my groceries out to my car.
I rather despise the fact that as one gets older, they must realize that "they cannot do everything," that "they are not super-people," and that, "other people are still going to suck even though you've undergone what you consider 'major out-patient surgery.'" It's not fair. It's not fair, getting older and it's no fun being wiser. Instead of urging people to go ahead and see if they can jump over a bonfire with their ten-speeds, I'm warning people not to chase energy-riddled children about the lawn.
"Careful! You might fall on your face or, worse! Your shoulder!"
Rather than easing my friends into the idea of another shot, I have been reduced to slowly shaking my head when they offer to buy. I have turned down free shots, for God's sake. Of course, it's not altogether advisable to mix large quantities of Vicadin with booze but something is certainly lacking in my sense of adventure. I did exchange one Vicadin for a Valium the other night; that was kinda cool...
But when The Boy has to mush an egg so that I might enjoy an egg salad sandwich... yeah, sad.