Recently something horrible happened. Something grotesque and vile and gut-wrenchingly sad.
I hurt Floyd. I maimed her.
I didn’t mean to. She had been shedding her fluffy fur because of the crazy summer heat and all the stress and roadtrips and whatnot. This nasty furball had developed on her hips. She couldn’t pull it out on her own. I offered to help. I had some old mustache scissors that weren’t very sharp, I thought they’d do the trick. But then the Little F and his doggie friend got to playing and I turned briefly to tell them to knock it off, whatever they were doing.
And I sliced Floyd’s skin like paper. I cut her open like a fish.
She twisted and grabbed at the spot and suddenly her frail little skin just ripped open like a gaping chasm, waiting to swallow up all the happiness in the world. I started crying. She started crying. We both started crying. We went to the vet. She got some kitty stitches. We came home. She took a long walk outside and gave me the harshest cold shoulder possible.
This lasted for days. I tried to bribe her with chicken, tuna, steak. I got her catnip, toy mice, feathers. She just grumbled and cussed at me. I can’t blame her.
Until last night. She woke me up around 3am, howling at the bedroom door. I got up and let her in and she crawled into bed next to me. We didn’t discuss what happened. We just said we were sorry and went back to sleep.
What a wild strange trip it’s been.
Rode my bike miles yesterday. Miles.
When I decided I had to go home or die, it was about 2pm and as hot as hell. I found myself peddling as hard and fast as I could to go up the hill at Carlisle in Nob Hill, but only to find the bike slowly creeping backwards down towards Central. Cars were honking. My body was failing. I had to get off and walk.
When I got home, after I passed out on the floor of the shower for a while, I tried to put on clothes and go about my day as if I hadn’t wasted one of my nine lives on the old Schwinn. To my dismay, I could barely lift my arms, frozen as they were in handlebar position.
I didn’t have the energy or the words to explain to the boyfriend when he got home. All I could do was lift my arm up halfway and say, “This is what my arm does.”
Somehow he understood exactly what had happened.
Cardio. I should definitely start with some cardio. Hop on the treadmill. On lowest setting.
Been a while. They got new TVs. Sweet.
Forgot to stretch. Oops. Oh well, I’ll be fine, right?
Half-ass stretch in the far corner. Hope no one is watching.
Elliptical. Fuck I hate this machine.
I wonder if my face looks twisted in pain right now. I’ll try to force a smile. Now I just look frighteningly creepy. Screw smiling.
Weird cramp. Let’s take a break.
I like that girl’s outfit. How does she look so good while working out? I wonder if I could pull that look off.
Circuit training. Accidentally slip while doing the incline press up. No one saw that. I will not re-attempt. Jesus, that was loud.
Vending machine- HEELLLLOOOOO Skittles.
Cheer camp is happening in the field outside of the window. I guess I could stay for a while longer and pretend to pedal this stationary bike.
Bar across the street. It’s wing night.
My existential angst of late reminds me of a story from a few years back. My friend was seeing a therapist for therapy stuff and they got on the subject of pooping.
She was talking to her therapist about her IBS (that’s when you poop funny) and instead of her therapist saying for her to see a real doctor, or to eat better, maybe try that yogurt, or work out, or whatever- she told her that it was due to conflicts she had with her self esteem.
So now we say we’re having an ‘identity crisis’ whenever one of us has to drop a deuce.
I was walking down a different aisle when I heard the woman speaking to herself. She was wondering aloud, almost frantically, where she might find prepackaged Jello cups. I avoided her as long as I could. I’ve got enough crazy of my own, thank you, I don’t need to listen to anybody else’s, too. But eventually I had nearly everything I needed in my basket and I ventured down the crazy lady aisle.
She’d recruited a young man who had been trying to stock the shelves. She really needed to find that Jello. He was telling her that it was the next aisle over. He told her a few times, and in great detail. He spoke calmly and clearly to the old woman, and offered to take her the next aisle over and show her the shelf.
She refused to listen, refused to understand. As she grew angrier and more frustrated, the young man stole away. There’s just no helping some people.
I tried to keep my back to her and grab my items without incident.
She grew louder and louder, crankier and more demanding, asking where on earth she might find the prepackaged Jello cups.
A good person might’ve gone and grabbed them for her, putting an end to her whole ordeal. But something inside of me broke.
“Who are you talking to?!” I snapped, and swiftly exited her sphere of loony. I’ve got enough of my own crazy to deal with.