One of the things I tend to forget about life in this body, until it happens again, is that when I have had a wonderful, uplifting experience, the natural woman cannot wait to bring me back to earth.
I swallowed wrong yesterday. You know how some people can trip on air? Well, sometimes I choke on my own spit. Sometimes I am lucky and can catch it, trembling, on the cusp and cough it back into the right pipe. Yesterday was not one of those days.
Swallow, oops! discreet cough, harrumph! cough, cough, shake head, cough, cough, cough, cough, harrumph! Off and on, all afternoon. I skipped Knit Night in favor of keeping my dog-and-pony-show at home.
Went to bed at a reasonable hour, woke up again at 2:05, knowing that the chicken stock I had had just before bedtime, wanted out! Swung one leg out of bed, sat up gingerly, sneezed violently, and headed straight for the bathtub as my sinuses executed a magnificent swan-dive aimed at my bronchial tubes.
On the one hand, I suppose it is a great thing that all of my interconnected parts are still functioning [except for my tonsils and my gall bladder, which were evicted some time ago]. On the other, I wish that my bladder, after five pregnancies, had a better sense of humor and a whole lot more patience with my ankles, knees, and hips.
I don’t want to talk. I’m afraid that if I do, I will start coughing again. And I just finished another mug of chicken broth while waiting for the tater tots to bake. I am going to send down one home remedy after another, hoping to clear out my head and lighten my chest and keep the mild earache from turning into an ear infection. If I feel as bad tomorrow morning as I did at 2:05 (OK, 2:06, while the tub was filling), I will call my doctor. But in the meantime it’s chicken soup, maybe an especially oniony risotto for lunch, and napping at will.
It’s entirely possible that the choking-on-spit was occasioned by my attorney’s return to work yesterday after being out sick with a virus on Monday. He dictated a lot of tapes. I transcribed all but one of them. He touched the tapes. So did I. I don’t use hand sanitizer unless I am visiting someone in the hospital, nor do I use anti-bacterial wipes at home or at work. I am a big believer in letting my immune system puzzle things out on its own. I just forget what an interesting process that can be sometimes, given that mine is like unto Robo-Cop with PMS.
But I think it more likely that this respiratory skirmish is directly connected with the sublime spiritual experiences I had last weekend. I felt the presence and influence of the Spirit in the workshops I attended, in the addresses from the speakers, and in various conversations with my friends, culminating on Sunday night with the music at the fireside.
I found it interesting that one of the articles at unclutterer.com was about returning to normal after a large disruption. Which last weekend certainly was, but in a good way, like the burning bush was a large disruption for Moses, or Moroni’s visit was for Joseph Smith. [No, I didn’t have any heavenly visitors over the weekend, just pearl after pearl of heavenly instruction.]
While I am [more or less] on the subject of gratitude, I want to be clear that I am thankful for the gift of Firstborn’s phone, just as I was thankful for the kids’ gift of an iPod [which is still sitting patiently here on my desk, waiting for me to upgrade or replace my computer]. I am not anti-technology. I just need to take it at my own pace, and I had way too much going on already. The difference between my old phone and this new one, is like the difference between a nail file and a light saber. Yes, I will master it eventually. I just was fresh-out-of-eventually last weekend. Plus, there was the irritant of being told by the unhelpful young man at the phone store that there was no such thing as an owner’s manual for this model. I am waiting until I can say the second, or twelfth, thing that comes to mind, before I write a letter to his manager.
So, no need to acquire an abacus for me. I saw all the Abacus (as in Brother) that I care to see, last weekend.
Knock wood, I think my head is clearing a little, and my ear is less plugged and tender, and the anvil which was hanging like the Sword of Damoclese over my chest has been replaced with a five-pound bag of sugar. Way less scary. I think this calls for a nap.
- 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!