497: klutz

They say, with pregnancy, your sense of gravity, your center of balance, is now officially off, particularly as that fifth month settles over you.

I would argue, however, that I was hopeless from the start. Case in point: I "broke" my elbow when jogging on gravel with the dogs, just two months shy of my wedding.

When Meryl and I were at Bread Loaf, some insect bit me, and the itching and whatnot swelled the ankle up so much that when my husband emailed the photograph to my mother and his, they thought I had broken it.


Upon returning from my Vermont adventure, I jokingly asked Ryan how many times he thought I'd "bump" baby's head into doorways; I have a habit of shoulder-checking them as I walk through and hip-checking any countertop or dining room table. I used to come home from work at the bookstore with little bruises, and it took me a while to place them--oh, those tricky sharp-edged display tables at the end of the bookshelves.

I sprained my ankle off a two-stone ledge while moving into the house we had just bought. I sprained my ankle again a few years later while walking the dogs. On a sidewalk. On a clear autumn day.

The top photograph: I don't know if it was too much knitting or too much book-lofting (my left hand being my "reading hand," after all--my right being the one for page-turning) in the past week or two, but suddenly the fingers on my left hand tingle whenever I do anything that involves pressure on that hand, and when I wake, it feels as if I've beaten my lovely new pregnancy body pillow to tufts of fluff.

The bottom photograph: One of my favorite kitchen appliances, the waffle iron. We were having breakfast for dinner, and when I reached back to pull the plug, I caught my arm. I'm mildly amused at the dividing line. And I also must note: this burn is not, by any means, new. I've had it for nearly a week now, and it's still an angry brick-red. Ryan says I've been branded.

When I was in elementary school, my friend's mother asked if I was a dancer because my calves were so muscular. No, my mother told her, it's because she walks on her toes (like a weirdo), just like her father. My legs are useless, just pretend-strong. My legs are cloaked in pants, long skirts; I will never wear a cute sundress, unless I also wear high high heels. And we all know what kind of a danger that could be. No, I've never been a dancer, cannot dance at all, even though there was a period in high school when I loved to go to the gay bar on "juice night" and wiggle with my girl friends (and girlfriend), all of whom actually had a sense of rhythm, and I had no sense to be embarrassed. I'm sure I danced enough on my wedding night too; I still have no sense of shame.

I don't mind my lack of grace; I make up for it in other areas of passion. I'm amused more than anything else, so much so that I take photographs of my blunders, and with a total of six bits of evidence thus far (think of how much I missed by simple neglect), I've even created a photoset on Flickr, for your amusement. This also includes the photo where I decided that canoeing in quicksand was a wise plan. (This, said with an edge of sarcasm: I actually got out of the boat to pull us from a shallow spot and hadn't realized how loose that silty sand was, which began to suck me under; fortunately, we were very close to shore, so I literally swam through the lake's bottom--in a lightning storm, no less--and clamored back into the canoe.)

355: yoga

Tonight, first night at yoga, which will occupy my time as the sun sets on Thursdays. I felt humbled, being a beginner amongst regulars, but this is how a small town yoga studio works--those sessions roll over into one another, little tumbling blocks. My body cooperated on most levels, which pleased me, despite my tender ankle and clumsy ways. And I left breathing much slower, wanting to raise my arms slowly over my head at each inhale, lowering them slowly at each exhale. And even though my muscles ached a little, my body mostly felt softer, more liquid afterward.

Today was beautiful, with clear blue skies, a bright and warming sun, the dogs burying their noses in the boulevard brush.

My body is changing, I know, as I make my way into more peaceful practice. It's feeling better as I consume more vegetables, as I breathe more deeply, as I get more fresh air, as I move and move and move. I may have gotten to the other side of stress; this doesn't mean anything stress-related is over or resolved, but just that I'm finding ways to do things that perhaps aren't fraught with consequences or criticisms or serious results. Instead, I knit little objects for holiday presents. I experiment with felting. I try a new recipe. I take walks, take photos, take field notes. I try yoga. Broadening, yes. But not in the bad way, of course.

314

July has been a ridiculous month for me, one that has driven me right into The Funk, a feeling where I am pretty sure I'm underwater and the rest of the world is merrily skipping by. I've spent afternoons obsessing over my newfound drive to conquer PCOS, (oh, and I tell you, what with changing my diet and joining the YMCA, my body is slowly responding): new medications have left me curled on the floor like a whimpering, ridiculous child, and my husband, chopping carrots in the kitchen, reminding me, "It won't always be this bad." Yes, my body can acclimate. And yes, my body has been tortured a bit this month of July, and I now think the pill-a-day organizer Ryan joked about before is something to invest in seriously, and I'm not even thirty yet, but I have a distinct, comforting order to the pills I take each day: the fattest one (fish oil) first down to the itty bitty prescriptions.

I know it's not the changes that have brought my emotions swinging low, but the way I obsess over them. I am at my worst when I am wasting time. And I tell you, internet, curses, curses, you suck me in! And I happily, obliviously allow for that.

That, and my days and nights are getting hopelessly mixed up.

I need structure. I once said, when Ryan and I have children, that I'd like to be a stay-at-home-mother. I admire that position--the one that dedicates self to home and the early education of offspring. (OK, and maybe half that reason was the fantasy that I could be a stay-at-home-writer.) Ryan always shrugged and said I probably should get a job. It's not because of finances entirely, we can adapt, but that he doesn't want to come home to me as a wide-eyed, stripped down self, me in desperation for adult conversation and stimulation. The job would provide an outside conversation, and given how much time I've sullied in the summer, I know it's true. I'm better when spare time is precious, not overabundant and rotting.

Now I look forward to:
- an approaching weekend trip to Austin to visit my little sister
- the two weeks in Vermont for Bread Loaf
- SCHOOL. I can't tell you how much I miss it, how ridiculously long summer is, and how my reading list has stagnated. That, my friends, is going to change. After all, there is one month left.

Also: I found this entertaining collection of workshop comments via this blog. Thanks, Margosita!

68: Frequent Flier

So this morning, lucky me, I had both a cholesterol and a diabetes test. Yes, lots of needle sticks and peeing-in-a-cup, which, I believe, is the ideal way to start a week, don't you?

It turns out my body has given me something else to consider. Perhaps the thrill of the fibroadenoma was at an end, the cracked elbow of last summer, oh, and that bad sprain when we first moved into this house--perhaps all that had faded, and my body needed a new attention. My doctor believes I might have a mild case of polycystic ovary syndrome, and when I looked it up, I am relieved I don't have a full blown case, since this involves all kinds of embarrassing symptoms I feel compelled to announce I do not have. It's very common; in fact, one in ten women are supposed to have it at one point or another. Ryan joked about getting me one of those days of the week pill boxes, and I was amiable and didn't kick him in the shin, even if I wanted to.

Anyway, this lovely new polysyllabic disorder, as I refer to it in our house, has something to do with insulin also, which means I was the lucky recipient of that orange glass of yeech, also known as the glucose test (yes, seventy five grams of sugar in some nasty syrupy drink that I abhorred, but drank down like the brave little soldier that I am). Two hours of adjusting myself on the uncomfortable hospital chairs, watching others come in and drink cupful after cupful of delicious water, which I hadn't had in fifteen hours at this point, or anything else, save toothpaste and that nasty orange drink. Cruelty, I believe, is a main ingredient in the glucose test.

I wonder at my husband, this superman who hasn't had any issues, but in the past three years, how I've had all these minor maladies (among which are the charmingly rhyme-able: a sty in my eye and a cyst on my wrist) lined up, returning me to the confines of our hospital and family practice. I am familiar now with the smell as I walk in, with the cockeyed lines in the parking lot, with the faces behind the reception desk. Nothing life threatening or even inherently interesting, but enough to keep me coming back, returning for more. I wouldn't mind something that involved a cast or a baby, some kind of true totem, a little keepsake beyond the frequent flier miles or the handy shot glass with the logo chipping away. Proof of time well spent in that building.

I'm going to take a nap now, which everyone can frown at collectively in a disapproving way, but I have officially had a sugar crash, the air conditioning is not on in our house so the sogginess lulls me, and I've got forty pages to go in my book club book. I think that formula equals a settling in with a fluffy pillow and some clean sheets, don't you?