A Hard-Reset Monday.

On Monday, I got solid confirmation from my ortho that per my physical examination and my MRI results, my PCL in my right knee is in bad shape.  The conservative approach is 2.5 months of SERIOUS PT.  Not "kinda do some stuff" PT-- rather, I've been prescribed a 5-day per week workout regimen to strengthen the leg, get it up to the same strength as the other one, and maybe see about circumventing surgical necessity.

Well, "necessity" is a bad word.  If I just wanted to live a normal, sedentary life, I'd probably be ok. The problem is that I do NOT. I want to keep skating, or at least, being active on a regular basis. I want to continue getting MORE fit, not staying at the same level I am at or degrading in that.  And if I had a different situation right now I may have agreed to the consult... but I can't. I live an hour away from work, and carpooling is not currently an option. I can't be right-leg-less for the 6-8 weeks that I'd be on crutches and immobilized.  It is just not an option today, so all I can do is anything else, which is hard.

I agreed to hang up my skates until my followup in the middle of July, and that broke my heart, but I have a good plan. I am really afraid that this plan may not be good enough, though, and my ortho strongly indicated that without surgery I may not have the opportunity to return to the flat track, but he conceded that we can look at it a little later and see.  First, there's a lot of work.

About 2 hours after that appointment, I got confirmation that the friend who has been trying to work out his financial plan to purchase my house is just not going to be able to do that at this time... and so if I do want to sell it and move into town, it's going to have to go on the market.  I have a good list of the things I need to accomplish to do that.  I need to get about 50% of my possessions out of it, firstly.  Then I need to do some prettification and resign myself to strangers poking around my home. I may need to temporarily re-home my cats, which I'm not excited about at all.  It may be that I end up storing most of my things and, when the time comes to listing it, move into a small apartment for a short while which is a new level of scary all to itself.  I don't know...but I know that first, there's a lot of work.

How do you move them? One at a time.

SO, it looks like the prevailing theme of my summer is going to be "Do Work, Son."  I'm going to have to change some plans to re-route some time and finances, but I can do that. I'm going to have to write lists, and hold myself accountable, and I can do that, too.  I'm going to have to be honest about what I need and what I like and what I've just been hanging onto because it is convenient, and I'm not just talking about my clutter but also things like mentality and drive and excuses.


The only thing left to do now is write the playlist and get to work.

90 seconds of absolute batshit crazy

Scene:  A Sonic Drive-In Restaurant, approximately 9:00 on a week night.  Our heroine is patiently awaiting delivery of a magical Diet Cherry Limeaide (extra cherries, please) after Roller Derby practice.  As is fit, she is sweaty. She is wearing an ensemble consisting of bicycle shorts, a teal T-shirt reading "Bitches Be Trippin'", a purple bandana on her head... and pink KT Tape decorates her knee. Her socks feature C3P0.

In the next car-stall, an older woman is piloting a large black pick-em-up truck whilst maintaining a solid grasp on the chili dog in her right hand.  She hits the menu post with her headlight, and rather than stopping and realigning tests the boundaries of physics to see if her F950 (est) can win the battle. It can, but at the cost of her headlight shielding, headlight, and a portion of chrome plating, all of which shatter upon the ground, glistening in the security light and menu glare.

Then shit got real.

Ok, so seriously? This woman (whom I hate for her actions, not for her chili dog) is all like, just going on away, leaving the car debris. So I call out of my window "You forgot part of your truck!"  Because I am HELPFUL, you know.  So she stops her truck behind me and rolls down the window and says "Oh, it's ok! It's just my headlight!"

OH BUT NO.

So I leap from my car and grab a shard of displaced plastic from where it bounced off of my car and I waved it at her.  "This was under my tire."

She sits there....and takes a bite of her motherfucking chili dog while examining the glistening shard in my hand.

So I proceed to pick up all the bits and pieces and chunks of Made-in-the-USA-Pickup-Truck, WHILST carrying on an improv monologue on how SOME PEOPLE just leave their trash lying around to puncture tires and ruin nice evenings and SOME PEOPLE could get out of their damn trucks... and I carried them over to her.  At which point she quickly handed off her chili dog to the passenger, which is a damn fine thing because had her hands not been free, she'd have been catching shattered plastic bits in her lap, and probably, that damn chili dog.

She did say thank you, though. I'm not sure if she was grateful because I gave her back her headlight or because I did not punch her in the throat, because I suspect that my appearance was pretty damn frightening... that lighting is never complimentary in those parking lots, you know.

Scene:  The carhop arrives with a Diet Cherry Limeaide and a perplexed expression on her face.  Was the confusion because the patron was out of the car or because the menu one stall over was askew, unlit, and scratched to hell and beyond?  Who knows.  Our Heroine was happy to point out that the black pick-em-up truck was getting on about their hitting and running now that their trash had been dealt with.  And then there was Diet Cherry Limeaide, and all was good.

---End Scene---

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