Today was a good Friday (yeah, I know; bear with me) in that I took the bipolar bears to their monthly doctor appointment and then to pick up their monthly meds. On the way home, we stopped at Whataburger for the traditional reward: breakfast. Because nothing says love like greasy potatoes. And the Dr. Pepper milkshake is back.
Middlest has attempted to explain to me why I like the Dr. Pepper milkshake when, try as hard as I could over the 40-plus years of being a naturalized Texan, I've continued to loathe Dr. Pepper. (No need to recap here, Middlest. Your explanation is perfectly logical, and my inner four year old refuses to accept it, as if it were broccoli or a demand that I go to bed right now because I'm a growing kid and I need my sleep.)
Sleep. That is a major component of the current weirdness. I have fought drowsiness at work for several days running. I was due to see my hematologist next week, but he's had a death in the family, so we've rescheduled for early May. My color is fairly good: a little pale, but not ashen. I may not need another iron infusion this time around. My mental acuity seems normal, at least for the parts where I'm fully conscious.
After we got home from this morning's errands, I noodled around to let breakfast settle, watched the first two installments of "Why Didn't They Asks Evans?" and lay down for a nap, waking to an alarm on my phone. At first I thought I'd slept through to my Saturday morning alarm. I'm glad that my smart phone is significantly smarter than I am when I first wake up. It informed me that the alarm was for my evening meds and not my Saturday morning wake-up.
The dreams. Oh, the dreams. I was sitting in a cafeteria of sorts, eating I don't remember what, when a gentleman two tables over mentioned my name. I got up, wandered over, and asked him why he would. He showed me a list in which I was the new first counselor in a restructured ward Primary presidency. That's not how we do things in the Church. In the dream, I couldn't text our bishop to ask, "Is there something you want to talk to me about?"
The next scene that I remember is that of pulling up in front of an old friend's house to take her mysteriously disabled adult son to a medical appointment, because she had other commitments she couldn't get out of. In that part of the dream I was young, svelte, and inexplicably a ginger. The car I was driving was not Diana or any of the other cars that I've owned or driven in the past half-century. It was like unto Fred Flintstone's car, in that it was unwieldy to maneuver and frustratingly slow.
Yabba-dabba-don't.
When I woke at the alarm an hour ago, nature was calling. I was also slightly chilled, as it had been warm when I lay down, and I didn't want to get overheated, so I left off the top layer of bedding. I am now properly relieved, optimally warm, and momentarily rested. Heading back to bed now. Not sure for what, or how it will turn out. Could be enlightening. Or merely restful.
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