My wrist is F$&*@ed. Beginning and ending with an incident in which I tripped on my own two feet, I am going to the doctor Thursday to find out why exactly my right wrist has a bump the left one does not, and why I can’t bend it back without wincing.
Although I fear surgery the way most fear flying, the hypochondriac in me has been waiting for this type of validation for YEARS. I am almost gleeful to think how the orthopedist will react, because for once I will have visible, irrefutable proof something is wrong.
In other news, lots of famous people have kicked the bucket. While all deaths are sad and deserve a certain amount of reverence, I have to say that despite the obvious choice, Billy Mays’ death makes me the saddest. All the others were on the downward slope, while Billy was taking off. His show Pitch Men was great, he was doing well, and like Mike he was young with young kids that will miss him. MJ had given everything he had to give, he had peaked and lived and accomplished enough for several lifetimes. Mays was on the cusp of reaching his potential, and that’s what often scares me most about death. The thought that you will be cut short, unable to reach your full potential. That there wasn’t enough time or time was wasted because maybe you thought you had more.
Finally, my creativity. Like my long and forgotten paintbrushes stuffed deep in the drawers of my sloppily refurbished Craigslist dresser, I can feel my right brain grow stale and harden. I feel my writing is bland, I resist craft projects because they feel like too much work and too much money. I don’t feel like making the messes that fuel inspiration. Sometimes I wonder if this shift is permanent. In growing up I become less frivolous, or less able or willing to be frivolous. I’ve been watching The Uniform Project blog with fascination because the idea of wearing the same thing every day appeals to me at this point in my life. One less thing. Maybe it all just means I need a vacation.