Wednesday, August 10, 2011

So we've given it a name

theWife and I deconstructed the day on the way to the movies to see an actual movie. I know it seems superfluous to say 'to the movies to see an actual movie' but anyone who's a parent and who lacks a decent relative-fueled support network will know what I mean. That you get to go out to do the thing you did as your week's coda pre-child that you now do twice a year. See an actual movie.

And oh did we love movies. Once or twice a fortnight we'd go, aiming to see usually a comedy (1) or a sci-fi. Sometimes a thriller. Never a romance (spit, spit), unless it was a romantic comedy, in which case, yes please (2). And ... I admit it ... I got to choose. I did. It was rare theWife fought me on the choice because otherwise she'd have to deal with my passive-aggressive sooking ('No, it's okay. I mean I wouldn't choose it but I'm happy to do this for you').

So we were in the car and tooling along the Monaro when theWife wisely said we should focus on the positives. I mean I've been in ambulatory pain all my life. All my life. And all my life I've been vilified by parents and teachers and adults alike as some sort of fat food-noshing slacker who couldn't be fucked to get outside and just take a lungful of fresh air you fat boy weak person when it turns out the reason why I didn't want to get jiggy with anything was because of constant discomfort.

Fast-forward to now. Three years ago I decided to go for a walk and I decided I'd do it every day. Every single day. Without fail. And bar one day (3) I did it. Rain. Cold. Hot. Didn't matter. I did it. And I kept doing it even as the pain ate at my legs, at my back, my gut, my head and on my aching flat-as-all-fuck-feet. Because all my life people had judged me ill for not moving so fuck it, I was moving.

There were moments when I enjoyed it. But almost always I was doped to the max on pain killers which took away the aches and pains that shot through my body with the giddy abandon of pinball machine that's undergoing a seven-ball-drop. I'd get an actual feeling of ... fuck it ... worth that I was actually exercising religiously, in a once-a-day-mass-kind-of-way for the first time in my life and overcoming by sometimes sheer fucking willpower the screaming desire to fuck it all off and just drift into a world of inexorable abdominal growth.

But it turns out ... it turns out all I was doing was grinding the last off the cartilage from my bones in my left hip socket. Because, according to the doctor, my left hip likely never formed correctly or developed properly, leading to my feeling crap and un-athletic and unappealing. Which meant I didn't walk properly—I have flat-feet, I shuffle, and my right feet points 30 degrees off my left for some unknown reason. So nearly 40 years later my joint has reached its end point. Ground off Mikey gristle that kept my bones in operation just floating away into my system for parts unknown ... unknown save where the fuck they should have been all this time.

I do have to admit I feel like calling up and abusing every single fucking teacher I ever had who mocked me or abused me or made me feel like utter shit and scream in their fucking faces what a fucking useless abusive ____ they were and how they made me feel small. Small and worthless.

But then who doesn't feel that? I'm sure that a good thirty per cent of people get damaged during schooling in some way. It's not an awesome environment. You have to be with these people. But somewhere between work and being in prison.

If I get a hip replacement then ... just maybe ... I will feel better. Like actually have greater movement. I haven't been able to bend my left leg properly in years. If I tend to nail work, taking care of deep-set hang-nails down the sides of my big toes, then I spend 10 minutes getting into position until I have turned my leg into a squished letter s and can stretch a shaking hand with tweezers down into the side of my toe.

I'd be able to walk without pain. I may have a limp but, fuck it, damage already done. It won't get worse than that. And the tech's improved since people I've known along the course of the dash-point have had them as theirs was some years in the past.

Although I dread the idea of an operation, and this is the first time I'm going to lose a part of my body I need for basic survival (4), and the long recovery time that will be needed, at the end of it then it should be an improvement.

This sad to happy transformation as per the play faces (5) made me smile. And it reminded me of this from Step Brothers. A moment where something bad ... became something very, very good.

So ... henceforth ... my likely hip replacement shall be called ... the fucking Catalina Wine Mixer.

And yes ... it's true ... Will Ferrell totally wore the shit out of that pirate hat.

I leave you with this.

Boats and hos.

That is all.

(1) I went into upper case for a second there and it started blaring COMEDY! in a most alarming manner. All fixed.
(2) Yes, I admit it. In the same way I love Roger Moore most as Bond I love RomComs. Love them. I love Richard Curtis and I dreamed of being him. It's a sad weird dream and if Mr Curtis ever indulges in a meth-fueled self-Google and comes here I hope he takes it as a compliment on his skills and not the beauty of his anus. Which, I am sure, is simply terrific and likely well-tended.
(3) The missed day did include a fair hike from then around an airport but that doesn't count if I am honest since it wasn't a purpose walk.
(4) I don't have a gall-bladder anymore. But you can live without one. Before civilisation reached the joy of modern medicine
you'd have been hard pressed to survive now with such a bunged hip. Unless, of course, you were a member of the slave-owning upper class. Because you would have people for that and who would carry you around in a sedan chair (4a)
(4a) Jabberwocky has the best (and as far as I know only) sedan chair race on film. See Jabberwocky today!
(5) I have no idea what they're called so I just did a wiki for happy sad faces. Let's see if it worked. No. Let's try faces of drama. On the second 20 is Drama, which has the faces, but not the name of the faces. Greek drama faces? Tragedy came up but no mention of faces. Ah, what about Greek drama masks? Score! Graphic says they're tragic comic masks. Let's see if I'm right ... yes, but back to here for it. Phew!

6 comments:

  1. I think you're right, and it is going to make a massive difference in the long run. I totally get why you'd want to punch all those teachers in the face - when I realised as an adult why I was so bad at hand eye coordination stuff* I wanted to go and yell at a few PE teachers.

    * Because of an almost-blind left eye that I'd known about but not really given any thought - as a kid you don't think to justify yourself with that sort of thing if no one spells it out for you first.

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  2. Aw man you poor thing. That would have sucked.

    I know what you mean about the don't think to justify yourself thing.

    It's like I always had gut pain as well. I just never articulated it because I never understood other people didn't have it.

    Moving has always hurt. Always. Unless I am zonked out of my tree on meds.

    I remember as a kid I hated catching the bus because of all the bullying fuckwits on it. So I'd try walking home. But it hurt. So I'd give up and go to the house of people who went to my church and ask if I could call my mum for a lift. They'd say yes but they were (rightly) weirded out by it. But my mum was pissed off. Which was fair enough. She was trying to work and I'd cause all sorts of trouble for her to finish early to get me.

    But I never really realised because I was hurting. Because I've always hurt.

    You think it'd make me stronger or something.

    You'd be wrong. So weak. So whiny.

    My eyes are old and bent.

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  3. You're allowed to be whiny. It sucks! :(

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  4. I suppose I can indulge a little bit

    (goes out into thunderstorm and shakes fist at the gawds, tears mingling with rain as thunder drowns out screams of embittered rage).

    That's better.

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  5. So long as it helps. Otherwise you'd just be wet.

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  6. And no girly umbrellas!

    They have to be manly ones. With sport on it. Or cars. Or chicks. Or a chick on a car wearing cricket pads.

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