Forced Stillness

I am not good a being sick. Or recovering from sickness. Or surgery. Or generally staying still and inactive for more than, say, 36 hours. I watch my stomach get mushy, thinking of the planks and crunches I'm missing. I wince every time my husband slaps me on the bum (Why does he keep doing that? Team spirit? A flirtation? Just to annoy me?), noticing the jiggle getting more pronounced with every passing day I don't put on my running shoes. They lie neglected in the closet, right by my mp3 player and my Garmin. Silently waiting for the day I rise up to run again. The laundry sat in various states of being done for four days. The crumbs accumulated under the chairs, willing the ants to come and find them. I convinced Kyle to finish the laundry and sweep, but the smudges on doors and windows and mirrors and cabinets, and who knows what else on toilets, sinks, and counters remain, and I am marooned on my bed.

I envisioned these days of recovery would be more like a well-written novel. Say, The English Patient or something. I would lie, convalescing, in my bed, contemplating life, reading good literature, meditating on the words of God. Occasionally I would move outside to observe nature and breathe fresh air into my body, bringing healing with every inhalation. After a week of mild food, rest, and replenishment, I would return to my previous life as mother and wife with added vigor, like I spent a few days at a luxurious spa being watched over by lovely young Swedish people.

It's been more like I've reverted into the life of a teenage boy. Ew, I know. I haven't been able to muster myself out of bed for more than 20 minutes before noon. I've only showered twice all week. I've worn various sports-related clothing (all with elastic waists) and no bra, never changing my clothes more often than every 24 hours. I want sugar and fat, but since I'm on a low fat diet, I've been eating a lot of cereal. And pasta. And being generally unsatisfied with the taste of everything. And yesterday, I decided my sheets smelled and so did my armpits. But I did nothing about either. And, worst of all, I've been watching teen movies. Like the 6th or so installation of Bring It On. Gag. Since I haven't really been doing my hair, it's taken on the slightly greasy and mussed up appearance of teenage boys these days, falling in my eyes and to my shoulders. And my throat's been kind of scratchy from the tube down it, just like my voice is changing.

AND THAT'S WHERE THAT ANALOGY ENDS.

So I put on a bra today. And real pants (which I unbuttoned 5 minutes later). And I threw on some makeup (la! The angels began singing . . .) and curled my hair just enough to make it look feminine, but not emo. Of course, I had to stay in bed until 3:30pm to accomplish any of this, but it's progress. I even put some banana bread in the oven and coerced my children into cleaning up. And I made the bed. Then I laid right back down on it. Oh, and I ate some cheese. It tasted so good. I love cheese.

BUT THIS IS PROGRESS.

I resolve to watch only adult (meaning mature, not the other) television tonight. I will try every day to be less tired. Why so tired? Seriously. SOOOO tired. I will ignore my butt-smacking husband and the jiggle he produces. That will be more motivation for when I can work out again. I might even try to read something more meaningful than Runner's World (although I love that magazine) and find some time to meditate.

Or I'll just pop a Percoset and be on my way to that really weird drug-induced dreamland I've been visiting all week. Never read fantasy while taking Percoset. Never. You have been warned.

Amy

PS -- Only 3 more posts until my 300th! I've got some good ideas. Hope I have some willing readers too.