Except, not necessarily. One of the joys of middle age is figuring out which twinges are temporary, and which are part of the “new normal”. When sitting here at the computer on Saturday afternoon, I stopped and rolled my head gently. And discovered that when I dropped my head as far forward as it would go, there was a pull down the right side of my back that ended with an “owie” about level with the sacral dimple. And that if I ran my hand back there, I could feel a thin cord which felt as if it had been distinctly over-twisted when plying. That the twinge was worse if I slumped, and better if I sat up like a proper Victorian matron.
The twinge is still here, on Tuesday morning. One more reason to look forward to that gym membership.
I commented to one of my friends last week that sometimes I think the only way I will ever get enough sleep, is if I marry NintendoMan.* Not that he is soporific; far from it. And not entirely because of the natural physiological progression which is marital intimacy. (Ahem.) But it occurred to me several weeks ago, after we decided to take a break and before that breach was repaired, that I have not been truly relaxed in many, many years.
I think part of this comes with responsible single parenthood. I think it may be due to that fine line we walk between being watchful and being sensitive to the Spirit. It is exhausting, and a palpable burden, and thankfully it is one that Heaven is willing to help us bear, if we allow it. I would also welcome some resident, earthly, help.
My babies are all grown and doing reasonably to exceptionally well. Still, on any given day, you could bounce quarters off my trapezius muscles. Sitting here quietly with my hands in my lap, I can feel the insertion at the shoulders, and it is tight. My neck is tight. My scalp is tight. It goes without saying that my back is tight (though I see that I have already said it).
I am the living, breathing embodiment of Uptight. If you were to grab your copy of your favorite medical dictionary and look up the definition, you would find: Uptight (adj.) in full-body lock-down; see Ms. Ravelled.
I am past the point where my friend who does two- and three-hour Swedish massages can help me. I am approaching the point where my Shiatsu practitioner could break me apart but not put me back together again. I need to spend about an hour standing in the shower with an endless supply of hot water, and another hour on the recumbent bike, and another hour doing laps with the kickboard at the pool, followed by a short sit in the steam room. At which point I could go into the yoga room and sit with my feet up the wall for half an hour or more.
It takes about half a day at work, or several hours after I wake, for me to be able to walk without stiffness. [Not excruciating pain; just stiffness. But it is noticeable.] This is not arthritis; this is me, trying to do too much under my own steam, and not relying sufficiently on the arm of Heaven.
*(Or, I suppose, somebody else on down the road.}
But there is good news, too. I was gobsmacked (love that word!) to get a comment from my friend Alyeen, who once upon a time lived in the same ward, and has kids the age of my youngest three (and more after that). Hey, kid, I friended you over on FB. How on earth did you find my blog?!!! Oh, now I see: through Middlest. And Secondborn. And several other denizens of that ward. Anyway: woohoo!
And there has been knitting, and an exchange of emails with NintendoMan overnight. It has been a crazy week. I should probably go eat a slice of banana bread.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!