I got biffed by a pitcher yesterday, and long story short, I called in sick today.
Let me explain: Under Sunday’s picture-perfect, clear, sunny sky my husband and I met one of his brothers and his lovely, talented, brilliant, funny wife for brunch. Not that his brother’s not lovely or talented, you understand, but it just flows better describing her. Mark, you’re the best. And the luckiest. I digress. . .
We rarely go for brunch, so the al fresco meal and cocktails (because it’s legit to drink alcohol at brunch, you guys!) made for an ideal Sunday. And then one of the servers lost her grip on a carafe. From what I gathered, the pitcher bounced off a support post and into my shoulder before hitting the ground. I only got a little wet, so no biggie, and this poor server was horrified. I felt for her, I did, because it’s something I totally could see myself doing. And with my son now working in food service, I would want patrons to be kind to him in the event of a mishap. Also, I’m pretty nice just overall. I said it was no big thing, told her it was OK she didn’t hug me (she said she wanted to), and she comped my meal, so yay, free shrimp and grits.
Later yesterday, the Bloody Mary wore off and my shoulder began to throb. I was all, “No. You can’t seriously be in pain from that. You cannot seriously be to the point of ibuprofen and distraction.” But of course it turned out that I could 100% be to the point of ibuprofen and distraction. I barely slept last night, which probably I owe as much to the WTF is happening to me in my old age? incredulity as the physical discomfort. But mostly I think it’s the WTF is happening to me in my old age? I can be fierce and feel badass; alternately I can be annihilated by a beverage receptacle. If you’re wondering just what special kind of luck or talent it takes to get injured while dining, it’s exactly my kind of luck.
Welcome to 54, the age at which I feel just comfortable enough calling into work because I need a nap.
But of course, I won’t take that nap because I’m old enough to need it but not old enough to sleep during the daylight. I’ve already made tomorrow night’s dinner (white bean chili, so much yum) and tossed in a load of laundry because I feel guilty not being at work, so I’m compensating or some such nonsense by being industrious at home.
For the first time since my baby started high school, I watched the kids get in the car and drive off to school together this morning, and that made my breath hitch. My senior drives them to school. I have a high school senior. I have a high school sophomore. When did that happen? How did I get to be “I can retire after next school year” years old?? How did THAT happen?
At least hourly while I’m at work, I find myself checking in on the district’s COVID dashboard, hoping, hoping, hoping not to see cases reported at their school. My children need to be in school. I want them in school, so I find myself checking the COVID report with alarming (read OCD-like) regularity. The district has a formula for determining when enough COVID cases necessitate a move to “flexible scheduling,” and so far, my kids’ school remains fully open for in-person teaching and learning. And Radio and Drumline and Football. Thank stars. I was stunned to learn that many more colleagues than I’d expected around the district don’t want to be teaching in person and that some even refer to the pandemic as “the alleged COVID thing.” This is a subject for another day however. Actually it’s a subject I’ll probably let fester about.
Today though? Today is about delicious breakfast leftovers, an embarrassingly sore and aging shoulder, and visions of my not-babies heading off to school. *sniff*
Probably it’s better for the district that I’m out today because the seven computer mouse clicks and four minutes I spend daily on monitoring COVID closures really takes away from my productivity, so I’m doing them a favor. Nevermind that I never actually step away from my desk for my alleged “duty-free lunch” and that I answer texts/calls/emails before and after hours AND that I’m still super pissed that they docked me thousands of dollars when they disallowed my sick time use after my husband’s accident. Yep, still bitter about that. Y’all, I really know how to hold onto a grudge. Which reminds me–I have to forward the latest bill for my husband’s treatment to the Workers’ Compensation Insurer, because somehow, the hospital system cannot be made to understand that I’m not shelling out one thin dime for my husband’s post-accident care. Maybe I need some work on that holding a grudge thing. . .
If you’ve read this far, you’re likely wondering if that carafe had actually hit me in the head and not my shoulder. I’m a little all over the place, OK, a little more all over the place than usual. But I’m really tired, which is the whole reason behind even being able to ramble on here! Let’s be honest though–you don’t read my stream-of-consciousness blather for its linear, snap-crease narrative precision, do ya? Come on, we both know better than to expect better from me!