Moving

The bed feels strangely uncooperative. Sleep comes in starts and fits. I ache in places I did not think a person could ache in. Now I know what a football turf toe injury must feel like. The sucker seems stuck in a perennial pain gear. Water, which usually helps those hamstring muscles relax for an hour or two has no effect on woe-toe. Thank the pharmacological god above for bringing Vicodin to the world. I still can't sleep but I don't care.

The guitar might have to wait weeks before I can furtively muster up the grip necessary to play a glissando or two. Chords might be months away due to swollen and inflexible fingers. My Les Paul Custom mocks me every time I gimp on past knowing my arms and shoulders can't take the weight right now. Even doing necessary private business hurts with these limbs and digits agonies.

Denial is such a strong place to fixate on within a mind. Oh, we can save a few bucks if we cut the cove and trim on the linoleum. Being ignorant, and now having to pay for my sins on several levels, I had no idea the cove trim was where all the work on linoleum floor prep would be. In desperation, as the spasms began to pop on every inch of my body, just scraping the whole damn floor away seemed much easier.

Of course, the old washer had some valve issues. And, who would have thought so much water remains in a machine after the clothes are done? Did I say heavy and extremely messy? I was lucky a good friend, and even more fortunately because he is a plumbing contractor, happened by to see if we needed some help. Total disaster averted, but the growing realization of how pathetic this mind and body have aged into wiped all that denial away.

Yes, and now all those bucks saved must go to the physical therapist and drugs necessary to prop my body up like El Cid before the final charge and move. Mercifully the place has a pool, and my body still floats.