I’m not sure where winter went, but I want it back, and I want it dry. It was mid-70′s in the dirty dirty this weekend, which was just disconcerting. I’m sure if I could walk I would have a completely different outlook. I would have gone for a run and a bike on the beltline and had maragritas in Piedmont Park while I threw some frisbees with varying levels of accuracy. There would have been dogs and daffodils, and I would have appreciated the smell of Christmas trees emanating from dumpsters everywhere.
Instead I used my bionic near-sightedness to sort resistors by color-code, which were then stuck to ducttape and labeled by my life partner for further use on his make-your-own guitar effects pedal project. This activity was presented to me as “The Soaring Skillet.” I feel I was misled by the alliteration and kite + breakfast imagery.
At one point in the weekend of mid-January summer, I took a break from my shut-in lifestyle to crutch over to a 2-year-old’s birthday party. There was cold beer and a petting zoo, but I was too gimp to go in the pen with the lambykins and pygmy goats. Instead I was propped on a couch in a living room with all the old people who each had a different tale about their experience with knee replacement surgery. I like old people as much as the next Murder She Wrote fan, but still… I like holding miniature piglets and cooing at bunnies more.
Then on Sunday my paramour went to the Falcons game while I sorted laundry, wrote to my Swedish pen pal, and tried (and failed) to vacuum on one leg (again. Still a bad idea). All while shouting things like “Juuuulioo!!!” and “Give ‘em the ole Harry Douglas!!” at my tv screen. In short, the immobility malaise is setting in. After I reached the end of the internet and watched a 6-hour Scandinavian mini-series–straining to see the subtitles from the prison that is my sofa chaise–I am so over Convalescence 2013. I am ready to walk and take full advantage of what petting zoos have to offer.
The deluge of rain that greeted me on my 0.3 mile crutch from parking deck to office this morning didn’t help. As far as I can tell, I have three options: (1) buy an umbrella hat; (2) continue to show up to work looking like a disabled drowned rat; or (c) drive off the edge of the Grand Canyon. At this point, I have not identified a clear winner from this array of choices. I’m currently calculating the travel time from here to Arizona and the estimated date of arrival if I ordered an umbrella hat today, so that I can make an informed decision.