Construction Zone, Day 5.4: Mile Marker #0

     Numbers decide way too many important things for us. If your bloodwork doesn't come back as a .8 but a .4 of something, then you don't get the magic whatzit pill because you have not contracted Symdrome X. If you miss one more question on that exam then the dust shifts, a dam breaks somewhere, and you don't go to College U. And if only you could move decimals with your mind, you'd be a zillionaire.

     Think about all the daily instances where numbers just, well, they just fuck you over. That's "low normal" and not something we will be spending our time on. That's not a fever. That's not a number I can put on my form that tells me to tell you which door to wait in front of until someone comes and asks for you, oh, and where's that number I gave you to pin to your shirt? If the pain ain't past 4, you'll get no more!

     Try as every long form and computer might, people cannot be read with numbers. We are not points on an array conjured up in some godawful class snagged halfway between psychology and statistics. This number of bowel movements is awesome, one less and you'll die soon. This pool ph is optimal, but the water is 51 degrees. Your kid is not in the normal range of our baby fat-ridden growth chart. Turn that pyramid upside down, you need 100 servings of protein now and no carbs! No, wait.

     I like remembering numbers (which is why I often offer to hold my friends' credit cards for them), but I don't like how they are used to describe everything indescribable--like people. Bo Derek be damned, we are not a sum total of anything. And we shouldn't be scared half out of our minds by slights and fractions. This little sliver between normal and death--which is like the light under a barely ajar door--is what you should let drive your every thought. Write everything down, memorize it, and buy a burial plot just in case.

     I do count calories because I am in the midst of losing the weight I lost two years ago which, without aid of GPS, map, nor legend, managed to find me again. It wasn't a pleasant reunion. Nearly halfway back to the number I'd like to be, I'm not about to stop counting now. So okay, I do think of myself as a number using numbers to become another number. But that little bit of rationality will not deter me on my rant...uh, screed about numbers.

     You know who makes a big deal about numbers and absolutes and thus, perfection? The directions wench who lives in the box in your car. She will admonish you no end if you piss with her numbers, with her plan of action. And if, at mile 109.6 you find your ass in a corn field well then, by god, you were meant to be in that corn field. (If you see Cary Grant, don't get out of the car. You're in 1959.)

     Just like our chat about autopilot before, beware of absolutes and alwayses and gottas: Beware of numbers which cannot be altered. And for gosh sakes don't let yourself become one at the expense of your idea of an identity. Unless you're a wiseass and want to be pi, or infinity.

     Check your oil, check your ph, take a barometer to your brain and a metronome to your afternoons. What have you got to lose except a little infintesimal drab of moments which you can take off the books, away from the form, and outside the box?

Construction Zone, Day 4.5: Autopilot

     I suppose the term autopilot puts me more in mind of the mind because it has in its construction more personification than does the term cruise control. The latter seems more mechanical, more of the machine than does the former.

     Autopilot does not require that you push a button on the steering column, it just happens. When I've caught myself telling an "old family story" on myself, when I've used self-imposed labels so old that if they could, they would be yellowing, when I've finished a sentence (or anything else for that matter) because I've started it and for no better reason...those are some of the many times I've been on autopilot.

     So since the dentist is (of course) on vacation and I cannot, in the near term, get that medical angle smoothed, I decided to take a very big leap, and one that is very much out of favor with everyone with a degree or an opinion, and go off my meds. According to the research I've done lately, SSRIs like mine do, yes oh yes they do, increase one's serotonin levels--well they actually just keep them from the uptake process so you can swim with them a bit longer--but in doing so they can also alter the precarious balance between serotonin and dopamine. Remember the last post and the opioid success? Opioids pump up the dopamine. It's been two days now, and that's the theory I'm riding till it drops.

     Autopilot also had me assigning random tasks to my children which I could do for myself. Contrary to some body of knowledge, I would advance that school is plenty enough work as it is. And with only three weeks left, and a few grades that need pulling up, I think that's about all they need to be concentrating on. I told them, "I'll take care of the dog herd, the cooking, and the cleaning. You guys work on your grades." Another experiment. We'll bait the hook and wait for a giggle.

     Think about the things you do and say and ask yourself why. I mean, why take advice from a crazy woman, but do we feel the same way about our choices after we've paused to consider them as we do in the moment of their birth? If not, maybe they aren't our original thoughts. Maybe they aren't us.

     As I wait for the path ahead to become clear, I'm going to ponder what's gotten me to this point on the map, whether it's a valid destination of not, and where I need to go from here. Sometimes detours are just that, other times they can save your life.

The On-Ramp, Day Three: Cruise Control

     Like the May Day miracle that it was, being me today didn't suck. I attribute this phenomenon to several things: a cocktail of Percocet/Tramadol/Aleve, a nice, big snow storm, a doctor's visit hanging over my head, and the coming of the first Distribution Day of the month. No matter which, if any or all of these played a role, we're talking staggering turn-around here. In a matter of twelve hours (and on no sleep) I went from "Oh, god, it hurts to let my flesh touch the cool toilet seat" to coming up with an impromptu second line to a friend's hearty greeting: "I'm dreaming of a white Cinco de Mayo!" (I went with "Just like the ones in Mexico...NOT.")

     Imbued with newfound strength, or pharmacologically erased pain, I managed to brave the driving snow, 32 degree temperature, and 90% humidity with my band of good eggs, handing out kitty and doggie sustenance to our clients. I managed for the first two hours that is; the gang took pity on me and gave me the last hour off. After a meal of the only warm food in the house--popcorn--I sent husband to the healthy store for ear candles. (My room smells somewhere between burning tires and rotting flesh, but my neck-ears-throat feel better. The nose is still cursing me.)

     As sick as I was last night--fever, chills, aches from hell, despondency--I would never have thought a day like today possible. Even the cloud over my mood seemed to lift. Either I crossed a threshold with the illness or the dopamine-enhancing opioids dragged me across the rubicon (in a good way) and into some redeeming light of a new month.

     But, as the name of that month implies, it's only a May-be, a step but not yet a path. I've negotiated the on-ramp but my immediate course is anything but charted. I must not raise expectations but be ready for slowing traffic or merging obstacles at any milepost.

     For now, I'll be "happy" with traveling quietly on cruise control, all the while hoping that May-be, just May-be objects in my rearview are larger than they seem.