When I was a young and very silly teenager, in the ‘and I’ll show YOU, so bloody there’ phase of existence (which, to be frank, I never quite grew out of), I spent a few, a very few, months playing rugby at school. Mostly because my Dad expressed a general desire that I stop wearing Doc Martens and buy some ‘pretty shoes’.
Anyway, as a result of this tom-fool foray into the brutal world of contact sports, I injured my back. In fact, I actually managed to misplace a vertebra smack between my shoulder-blades (well, I say ‘I’, but I mean the stupid enormous bitch on the opposite team who tackled me around the neck, and by ‘misplaced’ I don’t think I mean it ended up under the stands or any such drama. It merely slipped very slightly out of alignment. But still). I ended up with a severe pinched nerve, pain ran all the way down to my little finger, I couldn’t grasp things properly with my right hand and if anyone tried to get me to turn my head I would cry with pain, because when I am not being ridiculously brave and bloody-minded, I am a Big Baby. Panic not, it took over a year, but it eventually got better and by and large stopped bothering me. Ah, the resiliance of youth.
There is a legacy, alas – I get very tense, my right shoulder seizes up. If it stays seized for too long, the nerve running down my arm gets pinched. If the nerve gets pinched, I get unbelievably foul-tempered. The more tense and pinched I get, the more it hurts, the tenser I get, and wouldn’t you know, it’s getting to the sleep-deprived and grouchy stage now, also, my elbow hurst and my little fingers are tingly, and it makes knitting difficult. As I use knitting as therapy (as in, ‘I knit so I don’t kill people’), this is very unclever all round.
Reasons I am tense:
- I have so. Much. Work.
- I have so. Much. Studying to do (mea culpa as I elected to do both my optional modules this term, instead of one in each term like a girl with a clue. Still, what can I do if both the modules I longed for were in term two?).
- A vacancy for the Job of My Dreams came up at work, as Dear Colleague is retiring. I can’t take the chance, as I am studying full-time, and can’t take on another role because it would make my job full-time, and any attempt to commingle the two would involve some serious violations of the laws of physics. I had hoped DC would not retire until August, as she had previously planned to do. Then I would have stopped, or, nearly stopped, studying, and it would be feasible. I had hoped also that I would be elegible to apply, but, suddenly, hey, they only want people on the same grade (say, Hearth-Rug, in the grand scheme of pay and status) as DC to apply, and as I am still on Grade Carpet Underlay, this, oh, argh, grr, because to be frank (may I be frank?) I could do DC’s job on my head in a copper wash-tub in a thunderstorm while being scrubbed down by a porcupine. Her job is easier than my current job. Also, I nearly have the qualifications, and the other people on Grade Hearth-Rug fucking don’t. But enough on this matter. I will be Speaking to my managers on Monday. I must speak calmly to my managers and I must not cry or throw things, so I shall now adopt a very zen attitude to the whole thing and Not Give a Monkeys.
- On Wednesday afternoon H and I go back to the ACU and see severely about this getting me pregnant matter, and I get to say ‘well, I did lose a little weight and I have ovulated (err, twice since September) and err, now what?’ and if they say Clomid, which they probably will want to say, I will be signing over ever-so-much of that time I DO NOT HAVE to the dildo-cam.
- I don’t know what scares and upsets me more, the prospect of getting pregnant or the the prospect of NOT getting pregnant.
My shoulder says, you amazingly stupid female. My shoulder says, all together now, squeeze.
I say, if you want me, I shall be drinking gin and reading knitting magazines in bed.