The guilt is probably worse that the physical pain.

I’ve said a few times that I frucked up my knee trying to start the Couch to 5K running/walking program, and now I’ve found out I have to have an MRI done on it to see if I need surgery.

Yeah.

Exercise is stupid. And painful. And I miss it. I miss the 4 times I got to walk/exercise in the morning where I felt confident in myself and my ability to actually accomplish a goal that I set out to achieve. After the 4 times of getting up and sweaty, I actually felt a difference in myself. After being pretty much inactive for the last 15 years, starting this was my time to get back into my fighting weight and bust some fat ass.

What I’m learning now as I sit on the recliner for the 12th hour of the day as Patrick finishes the dishes from the last 2 days, is that I should have started even easier into the program. Even with it starting as easy as it could have started (90 sec walk, 60 sec run, repeat for 20 min), I should have taken it even easier by just walking for the first week. You know, cause people who get to be my size and my lack of movement need even more limitations.

*le sigh*

So that’s what has put me where I am now: on the recliner, knee propped, icing 20 min an hour unable to be the wife, mother, and housekeeper I need to be.

The official instructions from the doc: “Act like you’re lazy” which, hello? is something I’ve wished to hear for the last 33 years of my life. But when it comes down to the actuality of the situation and all that it means, it completely blows.

It sucks that I can’t push a vacuum to clean my floors.

It sucks that I can’t stand at my kitchen sink and load or unload the dishwasher.

It sucks that I can’t carry loads of laundry, move them, then fold them.

It sucks that I can’t make it to the grocery store to buy food then fix it for my family.

I never ever NEVER thought I’d think these things would suck. Ever. Never.

The absolute worst thing about injuring my knee: I won’t be able to travel to Anissa’s house next week to help her and her family.

It KILLS me. I am wrecked, gutted, flat out sad that I can’t follow through on my promise to help my friend.

I know there’s nothing more I could have done.

Except for take care of my self for the last 15 years. If I had done that, I’d be driving to Atlanta on Sunday.

Instead, I’m waiting to hear from the MRI scheduler to find out when I’ll go in to be photographed from the inside out.

It will cost my family hundreds of dollars.

If I have to have surgery (which, if I have to have the MRI, it’s pretty much a given that I’ll have to have surgery), it will cost my family even more money, and time, and frustrations, and canceled plans.

I can’t compare my injury to anything anyone else has had to go through, but I still have guilt over my part in what is happening to everyone around me.

Anissa and Peter are amazing. Forgiving. Understanding. Loving.

Patrick is beyond loving. Beyond caring. Beyond understanding. He’s been a single parent and housewife when he gets home after work. He’s amazing.

Thank you.

And now, while I sit on the internet 12+ hours a day as rest my bum knee, I need to learn how to make latkes, blintzes, and knishes.

shit … the tears again …

There’s a story in seeing people fight, in seeing drama unfold.

But that’s not what this post is about.

so sorry. next time…

I’ve been around these parts since way back in 1994 when my 14.4 screeched its way onto AOL. I’ve been in social media since 2005 when MySpace was cool. I’ve been a worker since 2006 when I opened my store.

I’ve been finding my family since 2007 when I started my blog, came on to Twitter, Plurk, Cre8Buzz, Facebook, IM, Skype, etc.

Yes, there is drama in family.

Just ask my sister who can throw out an insult faster than I can get off my ass to smack her in the head.

Same as with my blood family, in my extended family (YOU GUYS), there is also drama.

But there is also love.

TRUE love.

I saw that this weekend when I was beyond BEYOND welcomed into Mishi‘s house and into her family. She opened her house to my family, rearranged furniture, cleaned bathrooms, vacuumed, cooked, baked (her daughter’s birthday cake was for me, I know it).

Mishi is my first internet friend. One of my BEST internet friends. She is my family.

She and I, we’re like gouda & crackers. We couldn’t have found one another without this here internet.

And then there’s Anissa.

THE Anissa.

The Anissa who forced the entire internet to come together to help her after she suffered 2 strokes in November.

I finally got to hug-up on her in person.

She is a force. She is strong. She is hilarious.

If you thought Anissa was funny pre-stroke, you should hear her now post-stroke with NO FILTER.

If she thinks it, she says it.

Anissa without an “appropriateness filter” makes for serious snort-laughing.

And totally not the pity-laughing.

Example:
“One of the good things about having a stroke: I don’t have to play Mouse Trap anymore. ‘Sorry kids, I had a stroke’ (as she held up her right arm -which, hilariously, they have named, Sheila- with her left hand).”

Real effing laughter.

Anissa is my family.

Without the internet and social media and “working” endless hours on my lappy and dealing with menial drama, I would not have Anissa and Mishi.

Yes, I do live much of my life online. Yes, I am proud to say that.

My life online has grown my family and my cold, black heart.

Remember Saddle Oxfords?

I’ve been looking for a pair for myself for the last umpteen years, and at one time, Payless had them, but I was a poor college student and didn’t have the balls to wear them.

So now, when I see Little Bill and his brother wearing them, I’m all jealous of them.

They are cartoons.

Apparently, I have serious issues with lust and wanton and coveting stuffs from kid’s cartoons.

I also have issues spreading my personal issues. Yeah, sure, I can talk about how I want to have a drag queen penis, or how I have the skin of a 14-year-old boy, or how I’m a fake writer.

But the deep down, when-I-lay-my-head-down-on-my-pillow stresses of life, stay inside me.

Until this week when I exposed myself like BritBrit’s c-section scar.

I’m all… OUT THERE.

I’ve been one of the lucky ones out here in the cyberspace. I’ve stayed away from the haters (I’m not big enough to be on their radar, thankyoujeebus), I’ve pretty much stayed away from the dramas, and I’ve made really good incredibly awesome friends.

But I didn’t know that I could lean on the people of the intertubes for real support and a real sense of community. Yeah, I’ve helped others out in their times of need.

But this week, the internet held my hair while I puked.

In the few short days it’s taken me to strip down and expose my own BritBrit c-section scar, I’ve been lifted up like a meth-head holding up Ted Haggard’s nutsack.

I’ve learned, just in these last few days of exposure, that wanting things and seeing what I truly have, kind of sort of go together.

I don’t want Little Bill’s Saddle Oxfords.

I’m very OK sitting in my house, watching my TV, happy to have the house and the TV and the lappy and the husband and the kiddies to enjoy them with.

Thank you dear internets and all of my old friends and new friends. One is silver, and the other’s a diamond-encrusted pimp cup.