Right On: Random Updates

I survived my first week back solely through the power of sugar. At work we had cupcakes on Monday (that I brought cause I knew I would need them), ice cream cake on Tuesday and Wednesday, and my coworker bought me cookies on Thursday and Friday, because she loves me and knows me. Today there was no superfluous sugar, and it was pretty rough. Who me, emotional eater???

I had like the best massage EVER last week. My first massage was when I was 18, with a short, completely square male masseuse named Clayton. Clayton had bulging muscles covered in ugly tattoos, and kept asking me random inappropriate questions and invariably responding to my muffled, face-down answers with the phrase "Right on." As you might expect, this was a scarring experience, and I stayed away from massages for years. In many ways, you might think massages would be a perfect storm of hell for me. I mean, I'm MOSTLY perfect, but I do have some control issues. And some body-image issues. And some relaxation issues--my attempts at meditation always end with me fidgeting and thinking the mantra "I'm not meditating i''m not meditating why the hell can't i be meditating". So lying naked and perfectly still on a table allowing a virtual stranger to control my body doesn't sound like something I'd do well with. But I've found it to be therapeutic, actually, because I take all those issues and just GET OVER them, for an hour at a time. Think how much saner I'd be if I was getting massages all the time!! And how much less tense--I know it's so cliche, but I carry all my stress in my shoulders, and my back is always tight from lifting at work. Anyway, I bring this up because I actually let them give me a male masseuse this time. And he was AMAZING! He looked like an extra in Avril Lavigne's Sk8tor Boi music video, and we never managed an actual conversation without it being stilted and awkward, but he had hands of gold. Strong gold. No funny punchline to this story, just wanted to share my Clayon story.

I had a moment of serious self-doubt this morning. I picked up a patient last week named Mr. V. Smith. Sweet as pie, African-American man with a mustache and a slow, Virginia drawl. I nearly killed myself trying to get him out of bed, but he is super nice. This morning I got to work and found we had a new patient, Mr. J Smith. I made some joke about how I'd have to think of nicknames to keep them straight and picked him up too. When I went into his room, guess what I found: a sweet as pie, African-American man with a mustache and a slow, Virginia drawl. My first thought was, "Damn, how am I going to tell them apart?" Then my second thought, "Oh damn, was that racist???" Seriously. Isn't that the racist trope, that everyone of (insert race) looks alike? I had a few seconds of serious self-recrimination at my lack of perception and sensitivity, and then, I was saved by fate and the fact that I'm an eavesdropper and remembered a conversation I'd overheard last week--J Smith and V Smith are BROTHERS. Genetically predisposed to look alike!! He confirmed the fact and I'm like, "oh that's great!!" and had to backtrack. Cause it's obviously not great that they are having a family reunion in a rehab hospital. On the other hand, since they apparently have to have one, it's fantastic that I am not racist but instead OBSERVANT, observant enough to see the family resemblance. Phew.

Ok, so that is all for right now. I will try to get back on the horse with updating more often; it would just help if there was more stuff in my life worthy of an update. Hope all is well!!

Lulu vs the Stinkbug, kitchen cabinet version. Guess who won.