The Universe is clearly sending me a message. Just stay home, it is slamming, whipping, screaming bloody murder whispering to me. I am supposed to be at home, too. I am on week three of a six week book leave sabbatical. I have been pretty good, writing on average, four hours a day. The rest of the time I am doing all the things I don’t ever get enough time for: Gardening, friends, wearing cute outfits…the good stuff in life.
But, clearly I am not doing enough in some department…
It all started with the chigger bites. Then there was the poison ivy. (Itchy chigger bites with a healthy overlay of red, scaly, equally itchy poison ivy rash would have even Nelson Mandela raving.)
More poison ivy a week later, which sent me to Lowe’s to buy a 2 gallon “Round-Up for Poison Ivy” container with a squirt gun death ray device. If you have three leaves and are growing on this property, your days are numbered. I know what poison ivy looks like (now), but why take chances? Yes, I was raised by an environmentalist, and, no, I will not give up my Round-Up. Once you are on your 12th day of scratching yourself until three in the morning, you will agree with me.
Then, a twisted ankle because I dared to wear these shoes and leap over some greenery at the same time:
That incident started when Husband and I and three friends went to a restaurant where the alcohol servings were 3 to 1 to the food servings. When we got home, in my wine haze, I attempted to hop over said greenery to get to the grass to lead Callum to the designed pee area. (Callum has a new habit. He only pees now if he has a witness. And, nobody can get him to pee faster than Mommy.) Why I thought leaping over some of our landscaping in 4 inch heels would be okay, I will never know. The Universe corrected my faulty thinking by ensuring I toppled off one heel and will now be wearing an ace bandage for a few days.
Then, the next day, wearing flats, I slipped on some wooden (thank GAWD) stairs at a friend’s house and bruised my tail bone. After the shock wore off and I mercifully pulled myself back from passing out (too embarrassing), and thanks to the quick aid of T. who is not only first aid, but second aid and third aid (her nephew’s line. I cannot take credit), I lived. I kept thinking the whole time I sat on her couch with an ice pack on my butt and my head between my legs, Thank goodness I have a generous boot-ay.
Once home, Husband inspected my posterior, had me lift my legs (a test of whether or not you have cracked anything) and declared me “bruised, not broken.” Then, he went back to practicing his presentation for tomorrow.
Note to women everywhere seeking a husband: Go for someone who does not get grossed out by poison ivy, chigger bites, bloody stuff, broken bones or anything else medically-related.
Needless to say I probably won’t make it to Pilates-personal trainer-gym-lyra class this week. Yes, the universe is telling me clearly: Just. Stay. Home. Nobody needs to see your hunched over, hobbling, calamine-lotioned self right now. Except Husband. So be it.