That Awkward Age

love (luv), v. t.

 After my surgery you

recruited a neighbor to sit while you

shopped for chicken soup and 

Percocet

fed the children’s questions and

sent them full to bed

stroked my punctured arm

laid cool cloths and kisses on my 

brow

cradled my head while I wretched 

cleaned up my misery

changed bloody dressings

reached out in the night when I stirred

asked “What do you need?”

You’ve never been the roses type.

(From the files.)

Photo: Brymo

Splish Splash, I Was Taking a Bath, Long About a Wednesday Night ….

Perhaps you recall your hubby complaining at some point that using a certain device is like washing your feet with your socks on.

(Work with me here. I’m trying to be PC in case there are children in the room. No need for another national Letterman moment.)

Well, I can now tell you that I know what that feels like.

Today was day six of no showering because of my foot surgery last Friday morning. Foot surgery, no sweat. Three-day migraine from the sleep disruption to get there early, no breakfast and the anesthesia -- bad. Six days of sponge baths so that I don’t get the feet wet – miserable.

Since I have a home-based business, many days I can work from home wearing whatever I want. I consider not having to wear pantyhose a pretty even trade off with not getting an employer’s contribution to my 401K. I do have one hard-and-fast dress code rule – I must be out of the PJs by the time the mailman comes around noon. With a bra on. One never knows when one might have to sign for something, and it wouldn’t look very professional to answer the door in the baby dolls and the fuzzy slippers.

So the past six days have been spent in my grubbies. I even wore the grubbies to the podiatry visit on Tuesday, thinking I’d get the bandages off and then I’d take a nice long bath. But no. He rewrapped them – even tighter this time, and told me to keep them dry. What? Another week without a good dousing?

I remember my parents talking about taking a bath once a week on Saturday nights, but that’s when you had to carry water from the well and heat it on the stove. I can imagine why you might put that off. Especially since you’re just going to get up and go plow behind a smelly old horse again the next morning.

But there are no horses within sight here, only a very horsey smell. And tomorrow I have to wear Big Girl clothes because I’m going to an important Big Girl Chamber of Commerce meeting. So it was time to improvise.

I got out the non-environmentally-friendly plastic bags from Harris-Teeter (please don’t rat me out to Al Gore -- sometimes you just don’t have the canvas ones with you when you need them, you know?) and the duck tape. (Is that DUCK tape or DUCT tape? I never really knew.) Wrapped the feet with the bags, then sealed them with duck tape, with Bob clucking, “That will never work, you know.”

But I was a woman on a mission. I had a date with a bottle of Herbal Essence shampoo. Yes! Yes! Yes! Let’s just say that it was the slippery-est shower I ever had. I almost fell on my butt three times. Those bags could have used some ridges on the bottom.

My feet only got slightly soggy, but I am clean! I feel like a new woman!

And I know without a shadow of a doubt that I will not be pregnant tomorrow.