Summer is an ass kicker. There's no way around it, at least in my Book of Crazy. And since I write that book I think I'm something of an authority on it. By the time August rolls in my bones feel hollow, I suspect my judgment on even the tiniest things to be less than stable and I really, really don't want to hear the word Mom and have it refer to me. A bit crappy but 100% honest.
This summer began with Matt in the ER, unable to walk and the fear of blood clots in his legs. From there the path of madness transpired quite nicely until about 10 days ago when I found myself on an early Monday morning trapped between the garage wall and the car, unable to do anything other than cry and pull at my eyelashes. Fantastic beginning to the week. Matt's inclination was to admit me to the hospital, but since Crazy is much harder to diagnose than blood clots I called my doctor and we proceeded to have a long chat about medications and life balance. She decided I desperately need a decent dose of both.
So what's my point? Nothing really. I have to say I appreciate Klonapen and the therapeutic results of the borderline obsessive exercise that is keeping me out of the garage. That's really all there is to it for today.
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