Picking Up Droppings

Well, it finally happened. Some 19-year-old Salma Hayek lookalike at the Hallmark store (the one at Milestone, Brett, in case you want to head over there) asked me when I was due. Granted, I was wearing a dress with an empire waist that would have fit me in the early stages of my pregnancy, but knowing that I actually still look like I'm in the early stages of my pregnancy was not high on my list of topics for self-discovery. Abby's almost 7 months old. I can't burn any calories, I seem incapable of strengthening my abdominal muscles, and I have never been one to starve myself (or really, deprive myself in any way), so I suppose I should just stop wearing empire waists and be thankful that I don't weigh 200 pounds by now. Still.

This morning I let Bailey the dog out back to relieve herself and, ideally, retrieve a ball a few times, since she's getting only barely more exercise than I am. Unfortunately, our neighbor, who was out planting and apparently is mortally terrified of dogs, attracted Bailey's attention, and Bailey went over to make friends. "Making friends" involves running pell-mell towards someone, barking loudly, tail wagging. People who know dogs would probably realize she is totally friendly and safe, because of the waggy, happy nature of her approach, but this woman stood up, stock still, with her arms by her sides as if she were about to be boiled in oil, and screamed bloody murder.

I was alternating between yelling at Bailey to come back, which was pointless, and calling out to her, "She won't hurt you" and "She doesn't bite", which was also pointless, because there is a significant language barrier (she is, I believe, Chinese). Her husband came out to see why she was screaming, appropriately enough, and I managed to get the dog back, all the while calling out, "We'll go inside right now -- I'm so sorry," over and over again. Then I came inside and sent a pissed-off email to my husband in Germany, because there's oh-so-much he can do about it from there.

Lovely. So, now I can't let the dog out in our own backyard without a leash, and if I take her on the leash somewhere she tries to pull me over in a heap because she's so desperate to roam, not to mention then I have to go around picking up her droppings and trying to prevent her from peeing on other people's lawns. I can tell you that I've learned one thing; it is horrible to be responsible for something that makes another person scream in terror, no matter how unwarranted the scream. I feel terrible. And I'm afraid to go over there, now. I feel like I should take flowers, or cookies, or something, but I'm afraid they'll slam the door in my face or yell at me.

The middle of my day was characterized only by those normal amounts of hair-pulling stress caused by my normal job, without any abnormal screaming or fat-noticing. Later, I went to physical therapy.

I had one of those moments at physical therapy -- one of those moments that I call reflective, and other people might call clinical disassociation. Anyway, I was lying on my back on one of the therapy beds, with my feet on the bed, legs bent, a light-blue elastic band tied around my knees, and then opening my knees against the resistance of the band. Two sets of 20. [If you've been in therapy, you know these elastic bands. They dangle limply from every upright surface, making the room look like a place where balloons go to die.] The light-blue bands (level 1) are so elastic that you'd think newborn baby boys could do these exercises while dressed in the same color, but that's not the thought I was having at the time. I was lying there, looking up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling with which I have become all too familiar over the past year, and I was thinking about how suddenly, and completely, an entirely unforeseen and novel thing can become such a huge, important and routine part of one's life. The baby is like that, in some ways. Physical therapy is like that. Two years ago, I had aches and pains now and then; my neck hurt, I got migraines, my knees hurt when it rained. I was getting older, after all, and I had used by body up, including through a very stressful career and, long before that, several years as a gymnast. But now, suddenly, here is this whole new life: vinyl-padded tables and rainbow elastic bands; blood tests and MRIs; exercises and walkers and canes and notbendingnotliftingnotcarryingnotwalking. Not doing, in fact. What happened? I felt, suddenly, like I had been hit by this truck called Spinal Stenosis all over again. How did I become this woman, in rehab, trying to re-learn how to move? How did it happen so suddenly? And how did I, a person who could win an international worrying competition, not see it coming?

Clinical disassociation? You decide.

I guess I should point out that we're not out of paper towels. Actually, we have twelve rolls, in a huge Costco bundle, in the basement. I raided the downstairs storage space last night (a space I often avoid, because everything there is about bending, lifting and carrying), and came up with two rolls of paper towels, two of the biggest boxes of Kleenex I've ever seen, and a Smirnoff Ice Pomegranate Fusion. I ate the 5th Lean Cuisine I've had this week with my Smirnoff Ice. There was a sale at the store, you see -- 4 Lean Cuisines for $10 -- because the power outage rendered their frozen stuff horrible-looking, all frosty and melty and miserable, kind of like I feel, so essentially I've spent about $15 on food in 4 days. I bought about 12 Lean Cuisines and about 20 containers of baby food. Possibly the oddest grocery cart I've had yet, in a long history of odd grocery-cart contents.

I want to stop typing because the air conditioning vent is right under my desk and my knees are frozen. Instead, I find myself babbling like you do when you're lonely and the person you miss most is on the phone, wanting to hang up. In that situation, you'll come up with any minor topic of conversation you can in order to keep them talking, like some kind of hostage negotiator, only you're the hostage. Last night I actually told Dave all about King Gyanendra of Nepal, who voluntarily moved out of the palace the other day, when the Nepalese decided that they'd had about enough of monarchies afer 250 years and voted him out. Again, possibly the oddest babble I've had yet in a long history of odd babbling. So that's the kind of babbling I'm doing here. In fact, look, I've just done it again, I told YOU all about King Gyanendra, too.

I should probably try to stop, while I still have a shred of dignity.