What Kind Of Fool Am I?
A big, huge, silly, ridiculous kind of fool.
Here’s the evidence: Let’s go back to Saturday evening in San Francisco. I’d just finished a nice dinner with friends where I had eaten trout almandine with a nice glass of light red to accompany. It wasn’t a heavy meal and I was pleasantly full but not stuffed.
After dinner we headed off into the late summer night towards the theatre to see a show, quickly crossing streets and heading toward Union Square.
All of the people in our party are tall and in reasonably good shape. I’m walking along and find myself falling well behind the pack. Not only bringing up the rear, but struggling to keep up.
My heart is beating in my ears and I feel like I can’t fight hard enough to catch my breath.
After a bit, The Good Man notices that I’m struggling and he drops back to check on me. I admonish him with, “You have to slow down!”
The Good Man is super tall and quite long legged so this is not the first time I’ve asked this of him in the course of our lives together.
He slows and I’m feeling frantic, winded, sweaty and anxious. And I am mad. At myself.
Can I really be this out of shape? Am I really this far gone?
I grouse to my husband, “I don’t understand! I’m working my ass off lately, I eat almost nothing during the day and we have decent dinners at home. I walk three to four miles several days a week but I can’t keep up with you? It’s not fair, I can’t believe I was stuck with this goddamn body!”
As we near the theatre, it’s crowded. People are pushing and shoving. At one point I can’t seem to find a bathroom and it’s six minutes to show time.
I’m. Freaking. Out.
So I cry. It’s humiliating to admit and I’m mortified that I did it in public, but I cried.
The Good Man did what a good man does and he talked me through it. He asked me if I wanted to go home. He petted my head and he was just there for me as I got myself together.
I sucked back up all my whinging, dried my eyes, and we went on with the night. It turned out really well after all my fuss and kerfuffle.
Back at home, a tiny voice called to me from the back part of my brain.
“Hey. Maybe you need to start using your daily inhaler again.”
“Nooo,” the obstinate part of my brain said. “I don’t want to admit I have asthma.”
“Just try it. If it doesn’t help then stop.”
“Oh fine!” I say, petulant and cranky. And so I hit my inhaler and then went to bed.
The next morning, I go again. The prescription says take two puffs twice a day. Sunday night, I take the next two, and again Monday morning.
At noon Monday, I head out for my regular three mile jaunt with my friend. She’s in awesome shape and lately I’ve been lagging behind her and hardly able to make the walk.
Today, I zoomed around the paths, no trouble keeping pace.
Goddamn it. It was just that easy.
My body just needed a little oxygen.
This on the heels of a recent encounter with my acupuncturist. I have been crying and whining about being *so* tired lately. My western doctors found no medical reason and so I’m visiting this guy to see if he can help.
We’ve tried some various herbs and remedies and finally last week he says, “have you ever had trouble with anemia?”
“Yes,” I reply, rolling my eyes because I don’t want to admit that I have struggled with anemia damn near all of my life.
“Do you take iron?”
“No.”
“Um. I think you are anemic.”
“Oh fine!” I say.
So I am mad and I stomp to the store and I buy my regular iron supplement and I start taking it regularly and I’ll be damned if the ringing in my ears doesn’t stop and I sleep better and my digestion is better and I suddenly have enough energy to get through the day.
All I needed was iron.
Oxygen and iron.
What a genuine idiot I am.
And to think I gripe at The Good Man about overcomplicating things. Who is overcomplicating things now, eh?
Image found here
(I did not, in fact, shoot my eye out. I shot my mom. Whoops.)