Having a bath has always been one of life’s true pleasures for me. Stoically, I find that bubbles and froth are unnecessary and I don’t need granular highly-scented spheres on a string either: just lots of hot water to ease myself down into and somewhere to put my drink. Recently, Frasier gave me one of those candles that crackles like a wood fire and sometimes I will light that as well if I am feeling particularly fancy.
In recent years, I do make sure that I have some good quality soap: either the translucent amber of Pears or French-milled, a perfectly smooth block stamped with ‘Provence” and perfumed with violets, vanilla or fig. This sounds like a high maintenance diva talking but truly, it’s only late in life that I have justified such luxuries. I suddenly realized that no one, absolutely no one, is going to step forward and insist that I “treat myself”- so now that responsibility rests solely with me.
(Which is completely fine because I am definitely going to make it happen!)
So, sciatica is a pain in the arse (literally) but when I first felt that familiar current of pain, like a key in a lock, exactly twelve hours after I had smugly completed an online fitness class (only Level 2, which was basically designed for a lazy octogenarian - I exaggerate, but not much) - I was feeling very sorry for myself indeed. What is it about back pain that can bring you to your emotional knees so quickly? Firstly, all those jokes that circulate about knowing you are middle aged when “you can put your back out reaching for a slice of pizza” are no longer remotely funny but instead, spirit crushingly depressing. The pain and tightness was so severe that I could not put my socks on - I was crying with the effort. My usual go-to’s all help -a bit- such as putting an ice pack down the back of my pants; taking Advil till the hour is more seemly for a glass of wine; stretching like a slow-motion Georgia O’Keefe every hour, on the hour; supporting myself against the shower wall like an upright Sphinx while blasts of scalding water hit my spine; and best of all, leaning deeply into a tiny tennis ball till the bright, exquisite pain/relief that comes from dissolving a pressure point kicks in. Then, for seven minutes, I can dance, leap and yes, put socks on.
But then repeat all of the above again and again.
Niles asked for a “whizzer stick” this year (my own bastardizational term for an immersion blender) but in the few days since Christmas (which feel like as many years) I have felt as though someone has lowered one into my emotional core. I don’t know if I am the only one who needs to just sit and stare at the wall after Christmas but after ten solid days of cooking, cleaning, fretting and trying to pretend I don’t feel like hiding in a closet with some (decent) gin, my tranquility resources are, (in keeping with the season) in the red.
THE WATER IS BACK ON!!
To say that we are elated would simply not be doing this feeling justice – as The General quipped “It’s like we’re living in a luxury resort now!”
Everyone (First World speaking) should experience this just to realize what brats we really are.
I am surprised how the feeling is lingering too.
I’m now in the habit of emptying excess water into plants, only using a bit of water for tooth brushing and really chocking the dishwasher to capacity.
(The dishwasher!! This time last week that was unimaginable!)
Day 5 in a house without water.
I awoke this morning to find that I had completely lost touch with the Environmentalist Within and after extravagantly using no less than three Adult Towellettes ( instead of enduring yet another geriatric sponge bath), I then enjoyed my toast and peanut butter on a scrap of facial tissue (save the plate washing!) which the cat then decided to lick the residual essence off. As his tongue melted through the paper, completely spoiling his treat, he shot me a disgusted “Really-has-it-come-to-THIS” look which there was no mistaking.
And I do feel badly about the waste but don’t judge.
These are trying times.
Once more, when I opened the front door this morning some dear, so-far anonymous friends had made a drop (no pun intended) and there was a variety of different sizes of water left, some with the cautionary, yet comical designation of “Flush Only …”
The identity of said ‘AquaMarines’ is yet to be determined but so, so wonderful; for another day or two, we need not worry about carrying in buckets or schlepping mammoth-sized jugs from the hardware store, walking as though one of my legs is a good deal shorter than the other.
