So, I made my trek into the world yesterday. It was beautiful and sunny, if not cold, and the doctor’s office was extremely crowded, I assume with people like myself who had to reschedule appointments over the past two weeks due to the weather and now they’re cramming as many of us in a day as they can to get caught up. I had to wait nearly two hours, but I can’t complain because every other time I’ve been there they’ve had me in to the doctor within minutes.
So it was fine. I’m fine, my ass is fine, my bionic parts are fine, my doctor is fine, the Boyfriend is fine, everything is fine. I don’t even have to contemplate going back to work until April, so I’m now officially in cruise control mode, relaxing into the long drive back to health and yoga and pogo sticks.
But there is an itch, deep inside, to go somewhere of my choosing and do something. Grocery shopping sounds good, though I normally hate the grocery store. We’re out of the little special things that the Boyfriend doesn’t think about but I normally pick up, like Walnut oil, and special soap, and laundry detergent, and salsa. If the weather is half decent on Friday evening, I may even allow the Boyfriend to drag my ragged ass out of the house and to one of our many Mexican Food Establishments for supper, because that’s what we normally do on Friday nights, to celebrate the start of the weekend.
And I’m cooking, some. It’s hard to cook with one hand and one leg, because just dragging out the ingredients from point a to point b becomes a big hairy pain in the ass. But hey, I’m planning dinner, and it’s not leftovers, and it may be mediocre, but it will be good and it will be hot and it will be filling and it means my mind and body are ready to start moving back toward normal daily existence.
We’ll see how it goes.