Blog .:. December 2006 19 Entries
Hi, my name is Halt Near X and I think fire-breathing dragons live under jumps. What I think of gymnastic exercises isn’t really printable–it’s only in the last week or two that I’ve been able to watch other riders go through them without cringing.
So I’m as shocked as anyone that I walked through part of a gymnastics exercise today. Just the first part–raised cavalletti. We were using the impulsion generated by the cavalletti to help me rate the walk through the rest of the arena.
Unfortunately for me, this meant walking towards a jump and only turning away from it at the last minute.
I survived, obviously. I won’t pretend I wasn’t tense, but I did survive. I can walk towards a jump and not have a panic attack. Isn’t that nice?
Hypochondrianism is a defense. I don’t know how to explain it, but it is. I can dismiss every sign and symptom, because it’s just more evidence that I’m a hypochondriac.
The reasonable part of my brain can take over: “You aren’t dying of the plague. You’re dehydrated. You just think it’s worse than it is because you like torturing yourself mentally. Quit looking things up in MedLine and get a glass of water.”
You have to hope for that, you know. That it’s just dehydration. Just stress. Just sleep deprivation. You have to hope, because if it isn’t, then you’ve been right all along. And that’s much worse than being a hypochondriac.
I keep drinking water, as if I’m trying to drown my kidneys. It’s almost like hope, desperation. It’s giddy, and it drives you on one step more than you want to go. Because the next step is daily pain pills, and that would mean I was right all along.
I never really wanted to be right. I just wanted to know why I hurt so damn much.
I went to the grocery store today.
In my barn jacket, which hasn’t been washed in a few weeks. And my muck boots, which are, well, muck boots.
After a five-hour shift at the barn, too. I didn’t even have the decency to stop on the way out. No, I waited until after I cleaned up the hay shed and groomed a few horses and hauled a muddy hose around and groomed some babies. The babies, of course, tried to eat my jacket and hat and hair. It wasn’t until the third one tried to eat my jeans pocket that I realized the problem: one should never clean the hay shed before grooming babies. They think you’re a walking snack.
I could claim I wasn’t thinking when I dragged my tired, stinky, dirt-and-hay covered self into the grocery store, but that wouldn’t be true.
I was thinking.
I was thinking how good salt and vinegar chips would be.
And I was right. They’re yummy.
From a New York Times article on how/when various politicians announce their intention to run for President in 2008 (emphasis mine):
Understandably, candidates are going to do what it takes to get publicity. Mr. Edwards’s aides said they chose this slow-news time of year, and the backdrop of New Orleans neighborhoods ravaged by Hurricane Katrina, in part to command the maximum amount of attention. Camera crews will be permitted to film Mr. Edwards as he helps with the cleanup efforts.
“Understandably”? “Understandably”? “Under-frigging-standably”?
Well, hell. Why stop at New Orleans? Hillary, go stand at Ground Zero and announce your intention to run. Say something about getting the justice for the US and its fallen that the Republican party has so far failed to do.
It’s not that such things are done that annoys me, you understand. Such things have been done for centuries. It’s that we’ve reached a point where we cavalierly say, “Oh, this one’s going for maximum emotional impact, but their flagrant manipulation of this (usually disastrous) event is entirely understandable. That’s what politicians do, after all, and we’re ok with their wholescale appropriation of tragedy in order to further their own career.”
Someone shoot me now. I think I’m going to have a stroke watching the 2008 race unfold.
After my Christmas Eve Eve party (where one cider led to another, as they do), the Christmas Eve party (where I learned that cooking tacos while hung over is not cool), and then the various Christmas Day parties… I just want to fall into a hole and not talk to anyone for a week.
Everyone else wants to plan New Year’s Eve parties.
Plan away! Plan away! Plan far away from me!
I’ve already turned down three invites. Not very gracefully, probably. But I don’t do New Year’s Eve parties. I just… don’t like them. Don’t like the fireworks, don’t like the countdown, don’t like everyone singing Happy Birthday to me, don’t like the drunk drivers on the roads, don’t want to sleep at someone else’s place to avoid said drunk drivers, don’t want to host at my place because then I’d be cleaning up on my birthday, just don’t. Anything. Everything.
I think this attitude confuses people, but peoples’ boundless enthusiasm for more and more parties confuses me, so we’re even.
Incidentally, my brother got me an oil change certificate for Christmas. How cool is that? I was afraid he thought I was joking when I asked for five quarts of oil and a filter! And now I don’t even have to do the work!
Plombier Bourg-la-Reine on Looking for a Hand? (Product Giveaway!) (20 February 2017).
Resorts near Indore on Driving the Oregon Coast (19 February 2017).
life on How to make a ribbon quilt (9 February 2017).
sesja on Cleaning out my closet (9 February 2017).
Repo Software on Looking for a Hand? (Product Giveaway!) (12 December 2016).
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