Unnh, continued

 

AKA, Not a Good Day [5]

I got up this morning feeling a little more like a live human being than yesterday . . . but it didn’t last.  Well, we went to Tabitha today, for our monthly bludgeoning, I mean restful and inspiriting massage, and after these profound experiences even if I was healthy when I went in, I can just about make it home* before I de- or anti-morph into wet cardboard or an ihuman who has been allowed to run down to 1% battery.**  Another afternoon/evening on the sofa.  Playing that dangblatted iPad Boggle variant.

Anyone who follows me on Twitter knows what I’ve been doing the last couple of soggy, low-energy days:  catching up on old magazines, especially the Guardian’s Reviews, and tweeting the best articles.***  It will probably not amaze you to hear that the ones that appeal to me the most tend to be either about animals or—er—women, in terms of their lives and futures and opportunities and things.  So I will leave you with the one I just read, and that I haven’t got round to tweeting.

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2013/oct/07/computers-technology-sewing-sexist-stitch-up  ‘Arc welding is almost exactly like icing a cake. . . . One might involve slightly more molten metal at 3000C and slightly less sugar, but they’re essentially indistinguishable.’

* * *

* Wolfgang knows the way, I just have to arrange my hands artfully on the steering wheel and make pushing motions with my feet occasionally.  Although it’s important to get the pushing motions right, which is kind of a nuisance.

** Yes, I think she’s worth it.  I’ve told you this before:  it was Tabitha, vitamin and mineral supplements and homeopathy that got me up off the sofa again when the ME first knocked me over.  I can feel the little lines and networks of spastic neurons firing under her hands as she gets out her meat tenderizer and whangs me with it.  It’s worth a certain amount of mild AGONY and a lot of cranky neurons to be a little more lifelike the rest of the month.

Tabitha is also a lifelong committed Christian, and was one of my cheering/praying section for the last x years, and since that particular prayer was answered thirteen months ago, and aside from her necessary attention to what’s been having an effect on my health since the last time I saw her, takes an interest.  I’m still working through the aftermath of Ms Off the Planet’s attack with the lightning bolt from headquarters I mentioned here, which was only about a week before that.  It’s a bit like having your stabilizers/training wheels taken off and finding yourself in the Tour de France next week.  YEEEEEEEEEEEP.

Most of this is nothing I want to put on a public blog, but for anyone who has ever had the indescribably delightful experience of someone violently and unexpectedly offloading a lot of abuse on you—the kind where even while you’re standing there bleeding you know it’s not about you, you’re just the poor plonker who was in the way—or any other similar wild, mind-boggling injustice, I do want to tell you that this prayer thing is the razzle-dazzle.  I’ve got my own anger issues, thank you very much, and I’m not big into forgiveness;^  and I’m not looking forward to employing my new skills in my first major post-turning-Christian row in which I am as much sinning as sinned against.  That’s going to be a whole other kettle of loaves and fishes.

But in the present circumstance—never, ever get into an argument with someone in fugue state who has identified you as the antichrist—prayer gives me SOMETHING TO DO AND SOMEWHERE TO GO WITH ALL THE RUBBISH.  When I’ve been caught up in insoluble messes previously one of the worst aspects is that there’s no way out.  There’s nowhere to go.  You just have to wait it out.^^  Prayer gives you a door.  Prayer gives you somewhere to go, something to do, progress, fresh air, forward motion.  It’s funny because the old ‘give it to God’ sounds so insufferably pious—it sounds like the sort of thing someone who is big into foregiveness^^^ would say.  But you can give it to God.  He’s a big guy.  He can cope.  You can give it to him twice:  you can give him the original lorryload of ugly crap, and then you can frelling well pray for the person who hurt you.  You can give her (or him) to God.  Yaay.  You’re on your way to freedom.

You should try it.  Fewer calories than chocolate too.  So it doesn’t matter how often you have to repeat the process.

^ This is actually a major tangent which I shouldn’t get lost on when I’ve only got about one-third of my brain available.  My problem with forgiveness as it’s usually presented is all those trailing incense clouds of condescension and the high moral ground.  I’m not going there either as forgiver or forgivee.  At the same time I certainly believe in letting go.  But I have a little difficulty doing this, mixed up in the old adage about Trick me once, shame on you, trick me twice, shame on me.  My life is littered with people I will never voluntarily have any contact with again . . . a substantial few of whom for cause I’m sure feel exactly the same way about me.

^^ And preferably not lose too much sleep over fantasies of running them through with your sword or merely pressing the point to their throat and listening to them gibber for mercy.

^^^ See footnote ^

*** The best articles that exist on line, that is.  I still don’t know why the Guardian hasn’t died yet, since almost all its content is on line for free, but I’m happy to take advantage.  And I’ll just have to tell you that the New Scientist ran a fascinating article last June called Are you sitting comfortably? Well, don’t, which says (um, roughly) that desk jobs kill you, even if you’re a gym bunny in your spare time.  Long stretches of inactivity—even if you get your correct amount of ‘exercise’ as mandated by the latest government paper/fitness guru/talk show fad—are bad for you.

Okay, wait.  Here it is, by another name smelling as sweet.  You only get a ‘preview’ on the NS site.  http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/wellbeing/8864907/Are-you-sitting-comfortably-Well-don-t  ‘People who watch six hours of television every day can expect to die five years earlier than people who don’t watch any.’  Well, I don’t watch any, but I don’t know anybody who watches six hours a day either.

But having always been a fidget—and learning that fidgeting isn’t enough either—I’ve started standing up more, especially at the cottage, to the hellterror’s disgust.  WHERE’S MY LAP? she says.   I swear she can get all four feet off the ground when she starts climbing my leg.