My philosophical ramblings for the day
As tt is quick to point out, I barely work full days at work any more. Ha. I've had to be in LA for doctor's appointments, Lancaster for my social planning stuff with a few vendors, and Lancaster to see an orthopedic surgeon. I had a ganglion cyst removed from the top of my foot in 1998, and I still have a super-awesome scar that I like to say I got from a knife fight. Over the last few months, I've been having terrible, shooting pain in the same spot. By the end of the day, I usually can't walk on the ball of my foot and kind of hobble around. Sneakers barely fit over my left foot.
Today, I got a cortisone shot. Or three. The needle touched my bone and the capsule around my joint. I was warned that I could have severe pain for three days, before it gets better.
I headed off to Albertson's to get some Diet Pepsi (we are entirely out and totally jonesing!). I put eight cases in my cart, grabbed a bottle of wine solely because the bottle looked cool, and picked up four ice packs, two each for work and home. At the cash register, I babbled with my cashier, and the topic of cortisone shots came up when she spotted my ice packs.
So, here's the point of this story. They always ask if you want help out. And I always say no. This time, she asked and I said, no, I was fine, and she ignored me and directed Jonathan to help me out. I was flustered.
To be honest, if I think about it objectively, I needed help. I was hobbling around. But I find it weird to ask for help. I was totally uncomfortable walking to my car with Jonathan pushing my cart. It was nice to have help loading all my cases in the car, though.
This came up a month ago on the Laguna Beach trip. As the group organizer, I brought a cooler, several bags of ice, and three flats of bottled water. There is a really nice retired couple who go on all our trips. I have no idea how old they are, but the husband has been retired from my workplace for a good ten years, so that should give you an idea. As I was getting on the bus with a pile of stuff, he offered to help, and I was like, oh no, I'm fine.
I spotted my friend Monica in the parking lot and made her carry the next load of stuff on for me. Mr. Retiree offered again to help, and I was like, oh no, we've got it all. I made one last trip with my pillow, backpack, and a final bag of ice. He made some semi-lighthearted comment about "now being really offended" that I didn't let him help.
I didn't see it that way at first. He's from a different generation, and I think it pained him to watch me carrying the stuff in. But I really wanted it to do it myself. Why do I have such trouble letting people help me? But not my friends. If it is tt or E or Chris, I'm fine with bossing them to help me. Blake loves to me my butler and we have a special bell for when he's over helping me out.
Now I'm in the living room with a laptop and Dr. Phil and my foot up with an ice pack. Blake is in the office working on the Pengilley Ave. Times and having an absolute blast calling me with spelling questions using E's talk-about radios.
Today, I got a cortisone shot. Or three. The needle touched my bone and the capsule around my joint. I was warned that I could have severe pain for three days, before it gets better.
I headed off to Albertson's to get some Diet Pepsi (we are entirely out and totally jonesing!). I put eight cases in my cart, grabbed a bottle of wine solely because the bottle looked cool, and picked up four ice packs, two each for work and home. At the cash register, I babbled with my cashier, and the topic of cortisone shots came up when she spotted my ice packs.
So, here's the point of this story. They always ask if you want help out. And I always say no. This time, she asked and I said, no, I was fine, and she ignored me and directed Jonathan to help me out. I was flustered.
To be honest, if I think about it objectively, I needed help. I was hobbling around. But I find it weird to ask for help. I was totally uncomfortable walking to my car with Jonathan pushing my cart. It was nice to have help loading all my cases in the car, though.
This came up a month ago on the Laguna Beach trip. As the group organizer, I brought a cooler, several bags of ice, and three flats of bottled water. There is a really nice retired couple who go on all our trips. I have no idea how old they are, but the husband has been retired from my workplace for a good ten years, so that should give you an idea. As I was getting on the bus with a pile of stuff, he offered to help, and I was like, oh no, I'm fine.
I spotted my friend Monica in the parking lot and made her carry the next load of stuff on for me. Mr. Retiree offered again to help, and I was like, oh no, we've got it all. I made one last trip with my pillow, backpack, and a final bag of ice. He made some semi-lighthearted comment about "now being really offended" that I didn't let him help.
I didn't see it that way at first. He's from a different generation, and I think it pained him to watch me carrying the stuff in. But I really wanted it to do it myself. Why do I have such trouble letting people help me? But not my friends. If it is tt or E or Chris, I'm fine with bossing them to help me. Blake loves to me my butler and we have a special bell for when he's over helping me out.
Now I'm in the living room with a laptop and Dr. Phil and my foot up with an ice pack. Blake is in the office working on the Pengilley Ave. Times and having an absolute blast calling me with spelling questions using E's talk-about radios.