Good moods are fleeting. The one I was trying desperately to hold onto since Christmas is evading me now. I started getting grumpy about the time I went to Rotary yesterday, and I have been traveling under a dark cloud ever since. I just completely the most whimsical project I've undertaken in years, just five minutes ago, and so far, the utter silliness of it can't crack the shell on my funk. This hasn't gone on long enough for me to worry about it, but it still surprised me how suddenly it came on and how firmly entrenched it seems after 36 hours. I'm sort of tempted to loosen the reins and see where it leads. I spent enough of my life feeling like I needed to please everyone. Why not be a cranky butt for a day or two?
Today at physical therapy, I was due for a recheck, to evaluate progress on my shoulder and neck. I tried to speak positively to the therapist, to sound like I felt like we were getting somewhere. But I know that it doesn't take much to make the sensation of a tear in the top of the trapezius or deep in the levator scapulae return with a vengeance. The longer I sat at the end of the exam table, resisting her efforts to move my arms or to demonstrate my range of motion, the worse I felt. I didn't know whether to speak up that my pain level was noticeably higher after five minutes of sitting upright, or just shut up and wait for her to manipulate the first rib and apply the steroids through iontophoresis. I mumbled a little bit about starting to feel stiff, but I didn't press the issue. I really don't know whether any of this is helping me. I have been a proponent of physical therapy for years, but this time around it kind of feels like a load of crap. I don't think it is doing what any of us want it to do.
My mother and I were on the same wavelength this last holiday. We were late getting gifts mailed. She managed to get hers to me yesterday, and mine to her is still in pieces around the house, unwrapped and unsent. In the collection of things she sent was a special present for the quadrupeds of Smith Park. There were edible gifts for dogs and cats, and a special bundle for Harvey. We have a rich tradition of cats who worship the one truth of the universe (shorthand for that truth is "Ring"). We collect and swap the plastic rings off of milk and juice containers, and we accept a certain amount of loss of hair ties to the entertainment of felines. I stopped buying gallon containers of milk when my kids grew up and moved out. I have a distinct lack of rings to offer as sacrifice to the cats, and that failing is my own to deal with. Luckily the women in my family are willing to step in and help out. My mother sent a bundle of milk rings tied up in a ribbon, with a gift tag emblazoned with a large "H" for my new boy. There was also a loose one in the bag, so I came up to him, napping with Rabbit in my chair, and set the ring close enough for him to notice. I didn't shake him, I didn't do any tricks with the ring. I just held it near him. His spidey senses caught it immediately and he took off with it. He found the bundle of rings near his cardboard cave of wonders, and took off with those too. He had them halfway down the stairs before he was caught. It's one of the few sparks of true joy I've had in my decent into grumpiness, watching Harvey be initiated into the Cult of the True Ring.
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