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2001-04-12 I hate it when the meat falls apart all at once. My wrist hurt a lot last week. As it really has been for a while now. I've just been ignoring that fact. Friday I had an appointment to meet with the ergonomics and health coordinator with our company. She gave me some brochures about Carpal Tunnel and Repetitive Stress Injuries, and a new mouse pad, and had me fill out a Worker's Compensation Injury Report. Worker's Comp? OK, I know they're legally supposed to have records of any workplace injuries, but it seems odd to me. My only real impressions of Worker's Comp are from an old Kids in the Hall sketch, where a construction worker prepares to take "the hammer blow into financial security". Does this mean that this is going down in my permanent record? What if I change my mind later and decide that this wasn't an injury? OK, I'm behaving poorly. Worker's Comp just pays partially for the physical therapy or other orthopedics I might need. But that's not really at issue. I had to admit to someone else that I am not well, and that I needed help. [OK, so sixty percent of the male population (and possibly a larger portion of the female) would read that and say, well duh; welcome to the male gender, dipshit.] I admit that I'm frightened that I may have injured my wrists worse than I know. But irrationally, I've also decided that the only solution doctors will offer will involve long, protracted, painful surgery. This is the hypochondria talking. Maybe I should cut down on the 65 hour work weeks and do some non-computer-related hobbies, huh? But now I'm on the hook. I'm supposed to go to a walk-in clinic to get the initial testing done, and then they'll sign me up for physical therapy, or tell me to get wrist massage, or...to get off the computer...maybe that's what I'm most frightened of: doctors will tell me that I can make a full recovery if I stop using the computer. What would I do for work? What would I do with my time? And actually, had I known that I'd spend four days home sick with a nasty cold, I'd have waited to say anything, knowing that my wrists would get a lot of rest. Fine, I submit to you, Garage Deli, with the scary woman who reeks of GPC Lights behind the counter and your dusty, out-of-date cans of tomato soup. I will pay your outrageous prices because you are the closest store that has the few foods my stomach will consider eating. The outside world is still very scary to me in that hazy, flu-ey headspace. But I will be well enough tomorrow for work -- I'm willing this to happen -- because I'm starting to get a little bored in my room. I haven't been sick like this for a long time, nor for so long -- literally five days of miserable, shaky-with-chills, coughing-so-hard-it-hurts sickness. That'll teach me to say, "I'd rather be sick all at once and get it over with than just a little sick all the time" last week, when I was feeling a little sick all the time. So I want the other half of the deal now...once the obligatory week-and-a-half to two-weeks of sniffling and coughing is done, I want perfect health through September. Bright spots, though; the Boyfriend surprised me with flowers while I was sick. Last weekend we'd gone to see the Soft Boys (fronted by Robyn Hitchcock) and I'd gotten gradually sicker and sicker. I'm hoping he doesn't get this. The show was great; not just the Boys, who have some odd but wonderful fans, but even the opening act, the Young Fresh Fellows. Most notable for me, however, Thomas Dolby played keyboard during their first encore. My jaw dropped. He was my teenage idol; I tried to be Thomas Dolby for my first couple of high school years; he influenced everything from the piano music I studied to my glasses and shoes. We've since differed slightly in the style area -- while we both still have the glasses, he was wearing a Guatemalan knit cap and big baggy, multicolored pants. We've both, um...widened a little...since the early eighties. But he's still a handsome man. It was good being able to appreciate the entrepreneur/musician again from my perspective today. But I'll be dammed if there wasn't a minute during the performance when I didn't feel like he was looking out at me, grinning right at me, telling me "Hey, I remember when you came to my show in '85, and you were groovy then, just like now. Stick around after and let's get a coffee." I gave the Boyfriend a little squeeze to remind myself that I'm not 15, I'm 30; that schoolboy fantasies are well and good but the reality is often better than the fantasy because it really does stick around at the end of the show. The main thought I was left with, though: "He's a lot shorter than I thought." Other surprises, like a friend who forwarded pictures of some friends from our college days, deserves a better response that I can post publicly. But I'll have to see what sort of offer I can make for certain negatives... Ok, I have to find dinner that won't disagree with me. Back to work tomorrow, so I suppose I should also look into rehydrating and moisturizing. Other people will have to look at me. I forgot about that part. This means I have to change out of pajamas tomorrow, right?
2003-03-29 - Moving Notice |
