Matt bought a wobby stool. Intentionally. Sometimes I think that my husband just hates being comfortable, but he says that it’s supposed to ease pressure on your joints and force you to make micro-adjustments while perching on it that help (kinda) build muscle strength over time.
As I said, I think he just hates being comfy. I’d rather pick up some kettlebells and go for walks rather than subject myself to micro-adjustments, but to each their own.
Earlier this week I was in Matt’s office watching Gwen eat. Someone has to guard her like an A-list celeb when she eats, otherwise certain nosy siblings will attempt to share her food. By share, I mean nudge her out of the way and eat it all.
So I decided to try out the wobbly stool. It wasn’t bad, actually. I still wouldn’t want to perch on it for any good length of time, but it was better than I expected. Gwen finished up, and I went to stand up. Honestly, I don’t know what happened. I’ve stood up many, many times over the last 34 years, and I don’t recall being so baffled. See, instead of going up and forward, I went down and backwards.
I smashed my tailbone right into the corner of Matt’s desktop computer, which was the only thing wounded except for my pride. But trust me, a bruised tailbone is enough. I’m on day 5 and I still make funny faces when I have to move or get up from a seated position. Sitting on the couch is torture. The desk chair, oddly enough, is much better.
All that to say, that stool is now the murder stool, because I’m certain that’s what it’s job is, as it concerns me. So if it actually gets another shot at me and finishes the job, please make sure that Matt is charged with negligent homicide. Who buys a wobbly stool when they’re married to a Coleman anyway?
I had my tear duct probed again on Monday. This time was actually more painful than the first. I think it’s in part because I knew what was coming, but also because they only used one round of numbing drops on me. I don’t recommend the experience, also because for the second time in a row, it was unsuccessful. My tear duct has no desire to function normally, it appears. (Though I WILL say, despite it being unsuccessful, it has been working much better than the days prior.)
So I’m going to be heading to Roanoke next week to go to an eyelid specialist. I know. I didn’t know that was a thing either. I don’t know who goes to medical school and decides they want to specialize in eyelids, but I guess I’m grateful that someone did. But here’s the kicker: I’m going to Roanoke because the eyelid specialist is booked until July. Can you imagine?
Barring cancellation (KNOCK ON WOOD!) I’ll be getting my second covid vaccine a week from today. I keep hearing stories about it knocking people flat on their backs for 24-48 hours afterwards, so I’m going to pre-emptively instruct Matt to take care of food in case I’m out of commission. It might not be pretty, but we’ll survive. I would love it if I wind up being in the percentage that only has mild side effects, but even if I feel like death for a couple days, it’s still better than the alternative, and I’m extremely grateful to have been able to get the vaccine relatively early in the process.
We got Gwen’s echocardiogram scheduled for mid-March, in Charlottesville. Girl is proving to be a complicated little calico, though she is also increasingly well-traveled. It’s just too bad that she can’t see well enough to appreciate it. I’m not really looking forward to the whole thing, but it will be nice to have some answers about what’s going on. She seems to be feeling pretty good right now, so I’m not overly worried about her. She’s eating everything she can get her paws on, still chirping at us, climbing the cat perch, and enjoying herself. I’m pretty sure she’s stubborn enough that she’s not going anywhere until she’s done living the good life. (Obviously, I know from Mikenna just how fast one’s body can decide that it’s had enough. Whatever we’re looking at with Gwen, she’ll only be with us as long as she wants to be.)