Well maybe not entirely but this is definitely the running news ticker headline that has been scrolling across my brain the last few weeks. First it was merely being stuck in the sucky corporate job I've been trying to leave for the last two years. Then, it was my stagnant love life. But lately, those whiny elements have taken a much-needed back seat to the demands of the body.
Ever since I took a Hollywood-style tumble (see previous post: "OW"), all of life's daily activities have been awkwardly taken over by the anxious understudy, my left hand. At first, I was shocked to discover how much the world discriminates against the Southpaw - cameras, scissors, can openers, it's as if no left-handed product designers had ever been born. Well, I reasoned, at least they were allowed to marry in most states.
Surgery revealed what a true mess I'd made of myself. The surgeon was quoted: "It looked like roadkill in there." I'd managed to rip the ligaments and muscle clean off the bone, an injury usually only seen on pro athletes. I now sport a sci-fi arm brace with a giant numbered dial at the elbow to control my movements. As the public reacts, I hear the same word over and over again, "bionic." I tell everyone that it's exactly like that . . . minus all the strength and my own TV show.
In the background of all this gimpiness, my teeth and gums are being fully harrassed after some long-term but low-level neglect. In preparation for some hideous gum surgery in early November, they are doing something to me called "deep root scaling" but I just call it Medieval. One quadrant at a time, every week without fail, they numb me up and go deep diving behind my gums with some evil tools while I force myself to think about how much worse life could be. Conveniently, the world has been very consistent about delivering large-scale disasters lately. Compared with drowning in my own attic, losing everything I own or getting buried alive in a mudslide, my dramas seem infinitesimal.
Sure, it absolutely sucks to be me right now but it won't always. There will surely come a day when I have a cool job I love, two functioning arms and a set of clean chompers but until then, I should be grateful for the little things. At least that's what I'll keep telling myself, especially next week when I see the gynecologist . . . .