Once Upon A Week

I could not make this shit up.  The kind of week I have had.  Hilariously sad and pathetic.  I am laughing right now simply because the only other thing to do is flip (insert deity of choice here) the hardcore bird (you know, the kind that makes a BLAM! sound) and holler "Take me now you omnipotent son of a bitch!"

Just my luck, if I do that, I will break my jaw in the process of hollering.

Yep.  That kind of week.

So, if you need to feel better about yourself, this will be the perfect time for you to say, "SEE!  At least shit ain't THAT bad!"

Okay.  It's probably not really that bad.  I mean, I am certainly not a mother of 8 children in a starving subsaharan African country trying to figure out how to make roasted head lice souffle.

That was mean.

So.  Here we go.  In proper order, I present to you the shit that has happened this week.

Sunday morning:

It started out PERFECTLY.  Beautiful morning.  Ate my cereal.  Special K Fruit & Yogurt.  Went out to the garage to get my buff on.  Doing my biceps curls and thinking to myself, "Gee.... I sure am glad I at least have my weights since I can't run for another 20 da------- FUCK!"

Fuck, indeed, my friends.  Fuck, indeed.  There was a popping sound.  A pretty good deal of pain.  I dropped the weights.  Finished out my workout on the elliptical for half an hour.  Tried to pretend like nothing is wrong because if I were not ME, I'd think I was full of hypochondriac SHIT.... so I didn't really want to say anything.

It became a bit harder to hide as my entire arm began to swell.  From my biceps...... TO MY FUCKING FINGERS.  Yes, even my fingers were swollen.

Monday

Didn't sleep.  Every time I moved, I would wake up.

Ate breakfast.

Made a sad, sad little iPod playlist called "Hurt" which, strangely enough, included no Johnny Cash or The Cure.  Not sure how that happened.

Spent a couple hours doing every kind of exercise one can do without running or using my left arm AT ALL.  It even hurt to pinch my fingers together, not to mention anything else at all just short of simply letting my arm hang there.

Finally admitted to Sarge what happened on Sunday.

Monday afternoon.  I sit down to work.  At my job.  That requires me to hear and type.  HEAR AND TYPE PEOPLE.  (Drum roll please......)

The letter "R" and numbers "4" and "5" stop working.

And.

My headphones.

DEAD.  FUCKING.  SERIOUS.

Monday night.  Ordered a new keyboard and headphones from Amazon.  Won't be here until Friday.  This is gonna be a FUCKTASTIC WEEK!

I have a mini "woe is me" freakout which Sarge promptly quells with "At least you don't have MS."

Asshole.

Tuesday

My arm is still pretty useless.  I decide to suck it up and make a doctor's appointment.  I have not seen a doctor in ANY capacity since 2009.  So, you see how low I had to sink to make an appointment at all.  Didn't see the doc for my hamstring.  Didn't see the doc for my other leg.  Nope and nil.  Appointment made for Wednesday.

Spent my entire work shift with my arm on an ice pack while I struggled through 8 hours of Three Stooges slapstick fuckery trying to work around Rs an 4s and 5s while trying to keep my headphone plug from wiggling.

Wednesday

Ah, Wednesday.  Began in typical week-from-hell fashion with me waking up at the utterly obscene 7:00 AM, waking Andrew up, getting in the car, driving all way to the orthodontist's office........

..... only to discover that his appointment wasn't until Thursday.  Andrew and I laughed to hide the pain as we stumbled all Walking Dead-like through the rest of the day.   Yes.  7:00 is straight up fucking obscene around this "what is this strange thing you call "school?" kind of family.  Some shit better be on fire or dangling a carrot of gold bullion to get us out of bed that fucking early.  It's just WRONG.

Irregardless.

I went to my doctor's appointment.  The fucking doctor was my age.  There is NOTHING right about that!

He pokes around, pokey, pokey, pokey.  Sits back in his chair.  And says, "Yep.... you messed something up, you sure have..... you sure have...."

And then he goes on to explain that I have probably torn my biceps tendon.  Not a complete rupture, but possibly a tear.  And then he says, "Irregardless, I'd like to treat you for tendinitis for a couple weeks and see how that goes....."

WHAT THE FUCK?!

The man has 12+ years of education and he says "IRREGARDLESS?!"

Oh wait, I meant to say, WHAT THE FUCK?  How the hell did I tear a biceps tendon??

That's about the time that I let loose with all the other shit.  The hamstring, and what I am pretty sure is a stress fracture.  He starts doing his pokey thing again on my tibia and says.... "Hmmm.... yeah, there's probably a stress fracture in there."

He gave me a stack of Lidocaine patches about as thick as the fucking bible.  Big 'ole bottle of Naprosyn.  And then he wanted to check my vitamin D level to find out why I keep getting hurt.

Something interesting did, however, happen to me on Wednesday.  Something that has never happened to me as long as I have been alive.  I stood on a scale, weighed more than I should, and was totally fine with it.  As a matter of fact, I was so fine with it, that I will tell you how much I weigh.  You ready?

I weigh 122.6 pounds.  Please stop throwing things at me.  Remember, I am only 4'6".  Those stupid BMI charts say I should weigh anywhere from 75 pounds to 100, but 122 is most definitely overweight for my height.  Although, I am quite aware that BMI charts are inaccurate for those whose height is on either end of extremes.  Meaning, I really don't know what I "should" weigh.

Last year at this time, I was bordering on two digits.  But I felt very small.  I could see my ribs in the mirror without sucking in.  I honestly wasn't sure if it was attractive.  Or healthy.  Then, my hamstring went..... and I gained.  I tried not to, but I did.  Then, I quit smoking.  And I gained.  I tried not to, but I did.  But until Wednesday, I had no idea how much.

Here is what I know.  My jeans don't fit.  I know I'd kinda prefer to be under 120.  I know I have great boobs. 

Yep.  That's pretty much it.  I walked back into the waiting room and told Sarge, "You know what?  The scale said I weigh 122 pounds.  But I don't feel fat.  Matter of fact, I feel just fine with it."

He honked my boobs and said, "I've been telling you that for years."

Hmph. 

Thursday

Hmmm.  Okay.  Well.  Thursday hasn't happened yet.  Because I am writing this on Wednesday.  I wanted to make sure I remembered everything, so I started this a little early.  But now I am thinking, I could hit publish now, counting on the fact that nothing else shitty will happen this week.  Or, I could wait around for some shitty shit to happen.  And why would I do that?

I'm waiting on my vitamin D results.  You know, to make sure I don't have malnutrition or rickets or some crazy shit.  As it stands, the lidocaine isn't going deep enough to numb up the tendon, so I'm popping Naprosyn and tramadol like tic-tacs.

HOW IN THE EVER-LOVING FUCK CAN SOMEONE PULL-SLASH-TEAR A BICEPS TENDON DOING CURLS WITH A 10-POUND DUMBBELL???!!

I bet if I weighed 99 pounds and smoked like a Christmas ham, I'd be sturdy as a fucking horse.

Okay.... maybe a pony... but still....

Dude, I cannot believe you read all this.  Hahahaha!  Loser.