I was incommunicado for a couple of weeks with shoulder problems. Went to the doctor, who listened to me (!), prodded at my shoulder, then said something like “Well, you know when you have surgery, for every day you’re hospitalized you lose 5% of your muscle tone.”
Or something along those lines. So I started doing this compulsive numbers thing, thinking “Ok, so in the past two years I’ve been hospitalized 9+9+5 days times 5% = 23x.05=115%.
That means I’ve lost 115% of my muscle tone, according to my incredibly accurate compulsotronic calculations and geez, doesn’t that mean I should be a pile of goo by now?
Sigh. I hate when I think like that. But recovering from having been sliced from my guggle to my zatch not once but three times is a slow and tiresome process and I am still easily injured and easily fatigued. And discouraged, too. It is a process.
For today, though, I am energized by the thought of writing that damn great American novel, and energy is the best possible pain reliever. Ta-da! Grand-daddy would be proud (power of positive thinking, rising above it all, etc.)