Sunday, April 5, 2015
Bones Don't Bounce
Sometimes my own immaturity surprises me.
Standing before a (presumably) innocent clerk the other day, I fixed her with my best icy glare: I Do.Not.Want.To.Be.Here. I Do.Not. want to be a good example.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we.
One moment I was strolling from the south parking lot towards our Admin building, humming a Phil Collins tune. The next, my purse and lunch bag were airborne, and I inexplicably found myself up-close and personal with the pavement.
Being a paranoid type, the first thing I did was look this way and that, making sure there were no witnesses. (Whew!)
Then again, how in the heck was I to get up?
Rather than clutching my knee and howling at the setting moon, I clamored to my feet (not unlike an inebriated crab) and struggled to the office.
(If I'd had an ounce of common sense, I'd have dragged my sorry derriere the other way and gone home.)
One look at my bloody hand and torn slacks, my RM summoned a security officer to pen a report.
Serious humiliation, having to bare my old-lady knee-high hose to that 12-y/o. So studious, he noted my 'bruising.' ("Um, excuse me. That's a varicose vein.")
Ignoring my protests, my RM advised, "You need to set a good example for the associates." and sent me to Concentra.
Now I don't know if any of you've had to endure the looooooong process of worker's comp but it's a time-consuming hot mess. After an hour-thirty, I'd caught up on Facebook and blogville. I began to study my co-victims - trying to ascertain who was legitimate, who might be playing the system.
Finally, I was invited back to be assessed by a fellow resembling Methuselah's great-uncle. No breaks (thank you, Lord!), but they determined I've a strained knee and slight whiplash. Naturally, they pulled out the physical therapy card .... and I struggled not to cry from sheer frustration.
Thank you, Lord (again!) for the therapist who - unfazed by the chip on my shoulder - calmly performed her evaluation and agreed with me, no further therapy is warranted. (After all, I'd assured her my pain level was a "1; perhaps a 2." Never tell 'them' the truth!)
So, I broke my "no-wine" Lenten promise that night - and the next - but figure it was close enough!
Today's Easter observance has been unusually low-key.
DH and I are presently without a church home. I'm hoping that will change, but I cling to something my former minister said, "I don't care what you call yourself. Go where your soul is fed."
I've been intermittently hanging black-out curtains in our SW corner bedroom, visiting with Mr. God, and growing sentimental over old family photos.
Since I've helped observe hubby's Polish heritage most of the last 10 Christmases, I thought it might be fun to honor my own ancestry and craft a Norwegian-themed dinner. Unfortunately, most involve lamb (right up there with Lutefisk) and orange cake. (Those of you who know me, understand I don't eat fruit ...or anything fruit-flavored.) DH is grilling chicken breast and darn if we'll not be glad for it. That, and the wine! (smile)
I hope you've all enjoyed a very blessed Easter and Passover, and the coming weekdays are kind!
Hugs from Phoenix,
'Just for smiles ...