Clockwork BORED

I decided compression socks can be treated just like casts, although I do think scribbling all over them looks slightly unhinged.
I’m so thankful to have so many wonderful peeps in my life who’ve offered so much love and support and dinners and gifts that made me snort-laugh.

Time stopped.

Did you feel it?

I couldn’t find anything on the interweb to verify this indeed happened, but I know it has to be true because every minute of every day feels like hours and I get how that is a gift for those of you who have 5,000 things to do and not enough time in the day but as someone recovering from knee surgery, who moves at 2 feet an hour*, this has been a real a suckfest.

I’m. So. Bored.

I realize this is my own fault. I knew I’d be holed up for at least two weeks, unable to drive, and I could have stockpiled movies to watch — but that would require learning how to use the 5 TV remotes, which is too much effort even when you’re not on prescription pain meds — and I could have planned some light projects, like closet cleaning, but I wasn’t counting on having such a serious case of the funks and being so darn sleep deprived. Yeah, I can’t sleep. I didn’t get much sleep to begin with, but now my daily average has fallen to the levels of what international human rights groups would deem sleep deprivation torture.

It’s the worst.

I’m so tired, I’ll fall asleep while I’m on the floor doing physical therapy exercises and icing, but put me in bed and BING. Wide awake. Even with a double dose of melatonin. There are all the usual distractions to combat — snoring husband, heavy-breathing dogs plus one who “dream eats” and smacks her lips, which is cute but annoying at 1:30 a.m. — coupled with some fun new ones, like pins and needles in my feet and cramping and the feeling that my compression thigh highs — Spanx only wishes it could be that tight and uncomfortable — are burrowing into my skin. Sometimes for fun I roll over and my Termikneetor** feels like it might rip right off. 

Good times, good times.

While dinking around online for undereye creams, I did find a sleep aid promising “ultra” shuteye and if I take the maximum amount, I can get a solid hour and a half of uninterrupted snoozing, but then it’s back to a schedule of waking every hour on the hour, trying to get comfortable enough to drift off again. 

I’ve tried getting up and reading the most boring thing that, pre-surgery, was the surefire way to zonk out — the level 1 training guide for CrossFit — and nothing. I actually made it to the table of contents! A friend graciously offered to send over her husband at any time to speak at length on any topic, guaranteeing that his longwinded monologues would make me saw logs.

I dunno, I might have to take her up on it. Something’s gotta give. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. I sat down on the toilet the other day to pee — and realized just in time that I was fully clothed. I mean, I don’t need to be hypodermic-needle sharp, just alert enough not to pee my pants and to maneuver around the big dogs who weave through my bedazzled walker like they’re auditioning for the masters agility championships at the Westminster Dog Show.

The worst consequence, though, of all of this is how grievously my Wordling has suffered. I’ve busted TWICE in the almost two weeks since surgery and that’s awful. Lousy. Sucky. Gross. Junky. Nasty. Wrong. Just plain craps.    

*True story: I was ambling up my street one night at the same pace as a zombie and sans walker ‘cuz that’s how I roll — or rather how I don’t roll (ha!) — and a neighbor pulling his trash can inside the garage actually walked back outside and asked if I needed help. 

**I’m basically the “The Terminator” now that I have metal, titanium and a plastic disk in my right knee. 

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