The funny thing about people is we get used to things pretty quickly. What’s once surprising, if repeated often enough, becomes the new normal. And this holds true of misfortune too. The first time it’s a tragedy. By the fifth time, it’s your lot in life.
Or more accurately, mine.
There she goes, I hear you think with an eye-roll, whining about her sorry-ass life. We get it, Veda, it sucks to be you.
But this isn’t about that, guys. Honest.
I mean, sure, it does suck to be me sometimes – this month, for instance, I dislocated my toe for the fifth time in five years, got a hairline fracture in it AND got a slipped disc for the second time in nine months. Last month it was a trapezius spasm and spondilysis. My medical vocabulary is on the up and up.
But even recounting all this crap is boring the crap out of me. I’m not saying this in a Lara Croft ‘I wrestle alligators so don’t talk to me about pain’ way. I don’t wrestle alligators. I don’t even know enough about Lara Croft to provide a more accurate reference. It’s just… pain has become routine now. Bone crunching agony is now the equivalent of needing a root canal:
Just another painful inconvenience.
You cry about it, then you get along with it. In my case with 20 days of bed rest, injections and physiotherapy. Because, what’s the alternative? Lying impotent with misery, dwelling on things you cannot control? Or live in fear of the next time you turn a corner and walk into a wall?
How would anything get done? So no, I’m moving the fuck on. Again.
Oh well. It could be worse I suppose. Though it’d be nice if I didn’t have to find out how much worse.