I used to think my dream home was an obscenely-big apartment here in the city. Then I thought it was a farm house away somewhere like Vermont where all I had to do was knit and sew and bead and weave all day. Then I thought it was a sunny, colorful cottage on the south coast of Jamaica.
Yeah. No. I mean, all of those would be nice … and, if someone wanted to give me any or all of them, I would happily accept that gift.
But now I know the truth. My dream home is the physical therapy gym. I seriously need to live there. No matter how lousy I feel when I walk in, the magic hands of the therapists banish all the pain. I can walk, I can go up and down stairs, I can get down on the floor … and I can do it all comfortably.
And then I leave … and the magic lasts for a little while, but eventually the spell wears off and I’m back to pain. So clearly I need to take up residence at PT. I would feel fabulous all day every day. The lack of windows would get to me, but it might just be worth the trade off.
Here in the world where I don’t get to live at PT, I am instead taking the advice of my doctor. When I called last week to make my appointment to find out what’s going on with my should-be-bionic knees, his assistant asked if I was taking anything for the pain, and of course my answer was no. Wait, what? That’s right. In this whole time that my knees have been messing with me, I’ve taken pain meds maybe three times. So late this afternoon I took something … and — surprise, surprise! — I felt better. I felt okay enough to walk without my cane. I was able to meet Sonia for a writing date after work. I’m not thrilled at the fact that all this is possible because of drugs, but I’ll accept it for now. No need, for now, to start remodeling the gym to accommodate my bed, the cats, all my books, and my yarn stash!
It’s week two of the Slice of Life Story Challenge! Head over to Two Writing Teachers to see what the rest of the slicers are up to … and to post the link to your own slice!