The hip bone’s connected to the… rough articular cartilidge?

Sometimes when you’re trying to do something right, you end up doing something very wrong instead. I’ve done that. Many times.

In particular today I’m thinking about my knees. In trying to get and stay fit, I’ve been overzealous and done real damage to them. To be fair to myself, I’m also built a little wonky for the activities I like to do. I like high-impact, high-strain, high-pressure. My knees, on a womanly wide angle to my hips, do not. (Neither do my boobs and back, but that’s a whole other bag of fish).

Swimming, yoga, and other soft and snuggly activities are not my go-tos. Hitting stuff, running after stuff, pivoting, twisting, jumping — I’m /on/ it. Probably all part and parcel of the same personality which doesn’t like to practice, write, tidy, or grocery shop in a balanced coordinated everyday sort of fashion — but prefers a Big Stellar Do-It-All-At-Once Blitz. Short, fast and intense.

But I’ve been trying to be good. I am trying to keep my bike in a low gear. I have stayed away from kickboxing of any form. I am stretching the muscles that tug my knees to the bad place. I ice them when they whine. I go more mindfully up the stairs. I am trying to do better.

So I was wondering if I could go on the treadmill today. I’d been skipping and my knees seemed cool with that, just an occasional twinge when I pushed too hard. But the treadmill? Did I trust my knees enough to try it? Not to undo all of my newfound “being-goodness”, but to add something else to my repertoire of “if you do it carefully” activities. The treadmill was the first exercise I got into when I got into exercise, and I’ve been feeling nostalgic for it.

I was also feeling incredibly gunshy. Having part of you become chronically troublesome eats away at your faith in your body. I started to look at my knees as ‘them’. Knobbly barriers to doing what I wanted to do. Traitors. But, like any relationship, seeing them as ‘the obstacle other’ isn’t helping us get on any better. So I’ve been trying to listen, to acknowledge and respect their limitations instead of trying to shove past them.

But I felt like a careful try on the treadmill wouldn’t be disrespectful. And I do have to balance the needs of my knees against the well-being of the rest of me. So we made a deal. “I promise” I said, “I’m listening. If you hurt at all, just tell me, and I’ll turn around and get right back off.”

“Fine. But you don’t turn around on a treadmill, chucklehead. It’s not helping anyone if you fall sideways off the machine and crack open your skull.”

“Do you want an icepack later or not? Because I might just ‘forget’ you backtalking sonofa…”

So on we went. Because nostalgia + gunshy == tentative attempt. And tentative attempt == beautiful 15 minute gentle run. And it. was. heaven.

My knees are not better. And it’ll be a visit to the sports doctor at the end of June that tells me exactly how they are. It might mean a trip to the MRI, it might mean a little surgery to smooth out the rough edges. It might mean recovery time and physio and scars. But it will also mean fixing what’s wrong instead of letting it fester and tear and grow worse. It’ll mean being armed with knowledge and tasks instead of being stuck in a murky clicky achey limbo.

And in the meantime, we’re just going to go for a little run.

“I will call you… Gerald.”

I have a surplus of Matthews and Bryan/Brians in my world.  There is room for no more.  If you come to our wedding and you meet someone and think “oh damn, we were introduced but I can’t remember his name!” there is a 48.5% chance their name is Matthew or Bryan.

We met with the wedding officiant last weekend (it went smashingly by the way — she thinks we’re the bomb), and she was getting overwhelmed trying to sort out our family trees.  “So your brother is named Matthew, and his husband is named Matthew, and both of your dads are named Bryan/Brian and there will be other guests at the wedding who are /also/ named Bryan and Matthew?”

Yes.

On our way home from brunch this morning, we stopped in at a furniture store to check out couches (now entering month umpteenth of our couch search).  And the name of the model we’re thinking of getting?

Matthew.

For fuck’s fuck.  🙂

Bodies at rest lie on the couch, bodies in motion do laundry and go to the gym and work on websites and play guitar and…

*deep breath*

I should be brought in to science lectures as Exhibit A proof of Newton’s first law:

“An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force. An object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force.”

“A Catherine in motion will be an unstoppable force of productivity. If acted on by caffeine, this force will escalate to whirlwind grade task completion. However, if she stops activity, she will grind to a comatose-like halt until next prodded into action.”

My activity levels are probably best captured by sound effects. Like the sound of something hand-cranked when you make the first labourious pulls — a slow, heavy grinding. Until you build up some momentum and the gears turn on their own, in an elegant whirring mechanical frenzy of action.

Sure, it would be good to lead a balanced “a little action every day” sort of life. Good in a three square meals, matching socks, ocean sounds, structured sort of way. But not good in the “I got 15gajillion things done today, LIKE A FOX.” sort of way.*

One day I may live life as a string of calm well-sorted well-balanced days. But today is not that day. Today, I live LIKE A FOX.**

*This may be nonsensical to people who don’t know how fun it is to add the phrase “like a fox” to the end of most sentences.

**See?

PJ Progression.

I am home-based these days (as opposed to cube-based). Which makes me so happy I don’t have the words.

Home-based means you don’t run out the door in the morning. It means you don’t have to shove yourself out of bed. It means homecooked food, flexible days, and the ability to say “it’s gorgeous today! I’m going to go outside.” (<-how broken is it if in a whole day you can’t /go outside/ for 2 minutes).

It also means a certain… laxness to the wardrobe. In my previous positions, the contracts have usually made at least a passing mention to ‘appropriate business attire’. In my last contract, that’s actually the exact phrase. In the midst of: “…shall conform to the Client’s business policies, standards and conventions, including personnel standards. These include… appropriate business attire.” And when I’m working in an office, I adhere to these rules.*

But my kitty enforces no such rules. Her only standard is “something that means I can loll about on your knees without you throwing me off”. Her bar is low (which makes sense, as she’s really short — har dee har).

And my EF also doesn’t seem to give a toss. He has this whole “but you’re always beautiful” attitude which never ceases to amaze me. (<-and also leads me to test him. I like to seek him out when I’m at my most unsexy and be all “what about now?”. The little bugger always says yes.**)

Which leaves me entirely to my own whims and inclinations. MWAHAHAHA…

But I observed the other day that outside of “comfy”, what I end up wearing is less ‘planned’, and more ‘evolved’.

I get up in the morning around when the EF does, make him coffee and something for breakfast (usually). And then he leaves. And what I /should/ do is have a morning routine. A whole shower, make-the-bed, wash the dishes, get dressed sort of thing (not in that order). But I don’t. Almost unfailingly blameable on the computer. Because I make myself breakfast, and instead of eating it and then getting on with my day in a focused way, I sit down to “just reply to that one email”. Then I reply to a few emails. And check my rss feed. And watch something on YouTube. Work on a project. Chat with someone(s) on GMail. And before you know it, it’s noon:30 and I’m still going through my day by cobbling it together.

And, by extension, my outfit.

I start of in some form of pj. And then in amongst the emailing, rssing and breakfasting, I gradually add and replace layers until I end up enough clothes of the right variety that I can call myself “dressed”.

Take yesterday. Where by mid-afternoon I was wearing the socks I threw on in the morning (when I got out of bed to make EF breakkie), a pair of his torn sweatpants (which I adore and have officially adopted), a tshirt, a pair of loafers (my feet were chilly), and a small cashmere cardigan I bought secondhand.

Not one of these items matched. Though a good many of them were clean (<-it’s all about the small victories). Pale pale mauve sweater, black shirt, heather grey sweatpants with a fluorescent yellow and pink Nike logo (and bleach stains), white socks, hemp loafers. Oh, and a clip to keep my hair out of sight and mind.

Cuh-luh-assy. 🙂 For some reason, I just don’t look like the lady in the Ikea catalogue in her home office. But I think I’m okay with that, as she looks like she’s lost all perspective on appropriate use of caffeine.

*Though at my last job, I did somehow got the reputation of having a little too much ‘personality’ in my Friday wardrobe (there is nothing wrong, and very much right, with a Kozyndan tshirt of a bunny wearing headphones). And a smidge too little Yorkville in my weekly wardrobe (I will not wear heels to work. I will wear appropriate, good-looking shoes. But you’ll find me wearing heels to appease a boss over my cold dead flats-wearing body.)

**That is not to say he’s a love-blind idiot. If I make a something-in-my-teeth face, and my hair is greasy and I’ve just spilled pasta sauce down my front, he will concede that I’m not looking my “best”. 🙂

The emergency exits are locked.

Back to work tomorrow, after a delightful amount of sitting on my couch (and some undelightful really-bad-flu). Back to pinstripes and matching outfits as my salt-stained cargos head downstairs to the wash… Meep. Not toooo resentful so far – there is some promise for goodness around my working day, and positive things within it, even if my worklife may be shortly taking a turn for the worse (don’t anticipate don’t anticipate). Plus I basically like all the people I work with, and that’s good times. AND I have a new mug for getting coffee in thanks to Christmas (so I don’t feel so dirty about going to Starbucks).

But I still think something broke in me back in elementary school. I *hated* school

I don’t feel sick on Sunday nights now, but I do still feel that unhappiness creep towards me – lying under the couch and pulling at my ankles. I don’t love what I do. I don’t look forward to it in the morning. I would rather be somewhere else for those 8 hours. Because I’m still taking 1/3 of my day, 1/2 of my waking time, and spending it *not where I want to be*. For now, it is a necessity – I can’t live completely off the land just now, and I have to find some way to keep food in my kitty’s dish – and I have found a job that I like enough that I don’t feel like my life and self slip away while I’m there. But I am resolved to find a better way of being, to keep moving towards work that is my passion, since it must exist out there somewhere. This job is a step in the right direction. No overtime, good pay, great coworkers. And the new year reminds me of the terrible job I was at one year ago… Making. progress.

Perhaps I shall start buying lottery tickets. I would be astonishingly good at being independently wealthy…
In the meantime – best wishes for the new year and hati-hati kepalamu.