fun with bodies
Two Kinds of People
I can’t remember who said it, but somebody said, “There are two kinds of people: those who think there are two kinds of people and those who don’t.”
As someone who has studied anthropology, I know full well that there are far more than two kinds of people, but if I were to make sweeping generalizations I might suggest that people react to stress by either developing chronic headache problems or developing chronic intestinal problems.
Like the Great Apes, I fall into the latter category. When life gets crazy, I buy toilet paper by the truck load. When life gets crazy, other folks I know buy Excedrin, Motrin or Advil by the gross.
Two kinds of people.
I’ve had a headache I attributed to tripping over the computer cord and cracking my head on the sewing machine 11 days ago. At the time, I felt fortunate at not having to call 911 or an undertaker or my chiropractor or my orthopedist. I was absolutely fine (and grateful to not have had witnesses to my clutziness) until days later when the scab started pulling. There was a blazing headache behind my left eye. I was sure that if I looked in the mirror there would be flames shooting from my ears.
Removing the scab, drinking 4 oz of vodka, and binging on Advil seemed to do the trick. For three days.
I almost never get headaches.
Since I never get them, I have no tolerance and develop a feeling of certitude that I’m dying of something. Excuse me a moment while I put the CDC on speed-dial.
That certitude is not without foundation.
Eleven years ago, on the way to the pediatrician to get Chef Boy ‘R Mine his sports physical, I developed a headache. By the time the doc started yammering at me about height percentiles, immunizations, and puberty, I could barely see for the headache. How I drove home remains a mystery.
By 2 a.m., I was delirious from the headache and puking up internal organs. My head was an orb of pure pain, my back was screaming, and I couldn’t hold my head up to drink water to wash the vomit out of my mouth which was okay because I couldn’t have kept it down. By 1 p.m., I managed to dial the phone and talk long enough to convince the ex to take me to my doctor. Upon arrival at her office it was mere moments before I was wheel-chaired, in great haste, to the E.R. and folks started yammering about brain scans and spinal taps. The only thing I remember with any clarity was telling the E.R doc that I was afraid of the spinal tap. He assured me that it would only hurt for a moment and then all the pain would go away.
Blessed relief.
I’m not sure what he gave me, but I was unconscious for three days – the length of time it took to grow a culture and determine that I had viral meningitis. I might be making this up, but I’m pretty sure they told me that I most likely contracted the disease from a mosquito bite.
Unlike bacterial meningitis, there’s no treatment for viral meningitis other than pain meds. It just needs to run its course.
It was a miserable three weeks.
August, I’m told, is the signature month for viral meningitis. With all the rain of the past several months, I have a mosquito problem for the first time ever. They’re everywhere. As soon as I get out of the car, I’m enveloped in a swarm of blood-thirsty proboscii (proboscises?).
This headache bears no resemblance to that one of eleven years ago, but still I’m nervous about those mosquitoes. It was with some relief that I started sneezing this morning. About an hour or so ago, I developed a cough.
I have a cold.
A simple cold.
Nonetheless, I’ve still got the CDC on speed dial.
Summer colds suck, but they’re infinitely better than meningitis. So far it’s not affecting my work life (even if I’m using lunch time to blog).
One of my pet peeves is that people won’t stay home when sick – thus infecting everyone else. I don’t have time for a sick day. I’ve put a Quarantined! sign on my office door and warned folks. I’ve sprayed Lysol and I’m mainlining orange juice and aspirin.
As soon as I feel better, I’m buying mosquito netting and swaddling my body. Think see-through burka.
So. There are two kinds of people. Those who over-react to statistically-unlikely possibilities and those who don’t.
Book Report and Joy of Reading Award
Jamie over at the excellent food blog, Life’s a Feast, bestowed upon me the Joy of Reading Award.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never been rewarded for reading other than good grades for English skills.
It’s a good day to be me.
Two books, in particular, served as the gateway drug provoking my addiction. The first was Francina Morey’s The Bears of Log Cabin Village which nobody other than me has ever heard of. The other was Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy which is still being read by younguns.
Morey’s book is about several families of bears living in a community of log cabins. For years I thought the book was lost and mourned its absence. I prowled used book stores looking for it only to have it appear in my mother’s attic a few years ago.
I’m delighted to have it, but have resisted re-reading. I’m afraid it might not be as wonderful as my memory and the memory is a cherished one.
I can’t remember exactly when I first read The Bears of Log Cabin Village, but it spurred the addiction. My mother used to go to the Honolulu Goodwill and buy me grocery bags of books to feed my habit. I was never without a book. When packing for anything, the first thing selected was a book. I read in the car. I read in bed. I read during math class. I read at doctor’s offices and church, on the bus and in the bathtub.
I had a thyroid disorder when I was very young which made me hyperactive. I’d read while rolling around the living room floor. The disorder was rare in a child my age and severe enough that the doctors were amazed that I could concentrate long enough to do anything at all much less track the plot of a book. I think this is one of the reasons Harriet the Spy rocked my world. The book was published in 1964 and I probably got my hands on it in 1968 or ’69.
Harriet was roughly my age and different from her peers. In the course of the story, her difference lands her in trouble and in a doctor’s office. While it’s stretching things to represent my problems as a young girl as parallel to Harriet’s, the over-riding theme of Fitzhugh’s book is that it’s okay to be different, but don’t let your difference make you unkind. It’s interesting that Harriet the Spy landed on banned book lists primarily because it, supposedly, encouraged children to question authority and the status quo. It’s even more interesting to note that the author, Louise Fitzhugh, was a lesbian.
Anyway.
The Joy of Reading Award comes with rules.
I’m supposed to:
1. Collect the book that you have most handy
2. Turn to page 161
3. Find the 5th complete sentence
4. Cite the sentence on your blog
5. Pass it on to 5 other bloggers
It is with some trepidation that I grab the first book that it is most handy.
I’m currently reading Li Yu’s The Carnal Prayer Mat. This book is a classic piece of Chinese erotica published in the mid-1600s. I’m not far enough into it yet to know if it’s a read I’d recommend.
On page 161, the fifth complete sentence is:
At first they made out they knew nothing, but at length, under the pressure of his questioning, they took pity on him as an honest man about to die at the hands of an adulterous wife and felt obliged to respond.
[Whew! Dodged a bullet there – no mention of genitalia or descriptions of orgasm.]
The other book (sitting under Li Yu’s) is The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. This book is hailed as a masterpiece and I agree. The author began writing it in 1928 in Moscow. While not as powerful as Murakami’s Wind Up Bird Chronicles, it shares some similarities. The required sentence is even more boring than Li Yu’s, so I won’t bother to type it out.
To round things out, my hardback version of Harriet the Spy (sentences 3 through 6) reads:
Harriet rolled round and round the room. It wasn’t bad at all this being an onion. She bumped into her father, who started to laugh. She couldn’t keep her face screwed up and laughed at him.
Though the thyroid disorder re-appeared a decade or so ago(this time in the guise of an underactive one), I no longer need to roll around the floor when I read. Pity that. As a child, reading was a complete experience uniting body and mind.
Not having ever been much of one for rules (and we have Harriet to thank for that), I am not naming 5 other bloggers to pass this award to. If you want it, grab it. I’m always interested in what other people are reading and what books provoked their love of reading. There are several bloggers I read (and who read me) that I’m particularly interested in knowing their reading habits. If they can be troubled to get their noses out of a book and accept the award, I’d be tickled.
Carved Mahogany Wheels
A couple of months after the car accident wherein a utility truck tangled with me (I’m completely innocent in this one), I was persuaded to buy a recumbent bicycle. While my injuries weren’t serious, they felt like it. It was serious enough to involve weeks of physical therapy and I was tired of the constant interruption in my day to stop what I was doing and heave my aching body in the direction of the physical therapist’s office. Since a good deal of my therapy involved bicycle riding and yoga-like moves, I resolved to just get my own bike and resume my yoga practice.
The yoga went well.
Initially, I liked the bike. One of my complaints about exercise equipment is that it is ugly and noisy. The bike is ugly, but silent. (Why can’t I have something that looks like an antique bike? With a big willow basket? [Hi, Granny Sue!] Wrought iron wheels, carved mahogany pedals? Why do they have to be ugly?)
I love the silence of it. When I get it really going, it makes a whirring noise that is all white noise. Unfortunately, the effect is I pedal slower and slower the deeper into the meditative state I go.
As my recovery has unfolded, I spend less and less time on the bike. It shows. Due in part to the Misery Diet, even my flab has flab. Since bathing suit season is upon us, I’ve been trying to motivate myself to return to the bike in earnest in lieu of my lackadaisical fitness regime (mutiny?) of the past several months (okay, year).
It’s been slow getting started. I thought dusting the bike would be a good start. So. I dusted. And then admired it for a few weeks. Then it was time to dust again.
I thought a book would help. So I put a book on the book holder thingie. For another couple of weeks, I admired how clever it was to include a book holder. Then I remembered that silly looking thing above the book is a fan. If I do actually work up a sweat on the thing, I can air dry. Such convenience. (I wonder how it works on nail polish?)
Then I noticed the windows were filthy and there were cobwebs in the corner. So, I de-webbed and cleaned the windows. My they sparkle. So I sat on the stairs and admired the pristine view through the window.
While admiring the oak tree, it occurred to me that a little candlelight might not go amiss.
Candlelight is so nice to drink a nice Merlot by.
I’m pedaling pretty slowly in my new and improved fitness area. But I’m pedaling. I’m pretending it’s wrought iron, intricate caning, and carved mahogany. Every so often, I do my Queen Elizabeth wave to birds visiting the feeder for one last time before nightfall. It’s a good day to be me.
You do things your way, I’ll do it mine. I am a hedonist.
[Maybe a fruit and cheese tray. . .some Chopin. . .mango vanilla incense. . .a butler to check my heart rate. . .]











