It’s a loathsome phrase: “blogging will be light.” Go on. Just tell us you didn’t pay the electric bill and promise to return after you’ve hit up your brother-in-law for another utility deposit.
Around here, at least in certain quarters, blogging will be sparse and painful. On account of tripping over a wheelbarrow in the dark. One moment you’re vertical, walking toward the car, and then WHAM! you’re horizontal, lying in a large cold puddle next to the fig tree. Some unspecified period of disorientation passes. You feel the pulse of the rain and think vaguely of the Biblical observation that it falls on the just and the unjust at moment your awareness begins to take in the scent of roses nearby.
OK. Tactile sense of rain. Olfactory nerves intact: rose fragrance. Time for a body check: chins? Check. There, but bonging. Pain? Maybe a 3. Safe enough. Shoulder? Check. OK, just taking a cold soak in a puddle. Pain? No. Hip? Check. Padded and impervious. No pain there. Head? Resounding from the effect of cranium hitting ground. Pain? A 3, with some resonance.
That leaves only one problem: A wheelbarrow handle jammed firmly up and under the ribcage on the right side. Not such a great check here. Pain? Maybe a 5. The task, as it appears from ground level, is to maneuver the overturned and now wedged wheelbarrow in such a way that it won’t inflict further damage.
Fling it off? What if it doesn’t fling far enough? This is a wheelbarrow, not a frisbee.
Wait until someone notices my absence? That might be a while, dependent on whomever is hungry enough to look for dinner.
Slooowly maneuver the other handle in such a way that the whole thing shifts six inches and allows for a crawl out from under?
The last solution works, though the release of handle-jammed-under-ribs is probably akin to having an arrow removed. Since arrow-removal is not on my list of experiences, that’s just a guess.
Crawling out from under the wheelbarrow to the relative joy of wet grass, the main feeling is one of deep gratitude. Crawling means movement. Movement means life. Life goes on…
And so I get up off my knees the way a child does. Awkward, but it works. I bend over to… No, I start to bend over. No go. Ribcage/liver — whatever piece of damaged anatomy it is rebels at this movement. NO BENDING! Okaaay… Not so bad. Just don’t bend. Don’t bend that way…
So now, 24 hours later, blogging in a standing position is awkward. Blogging on my knees reminds me I need to pray more, but mainly it tells me this penance requires some medical attention.
We’re off to the doctor tomorrow, though not just for my pain. The Baron is getting noticeably jumpy at the sudden screams and moans when I bend that way.
It is fervently to be hoped that blogging will be under the influence of drugs next time we meet…