Anyone who’s ever had surgery or any incapacitating medical procedure knows of the impending, and inevitable, recuperation boredom.
In addition to my gallbladder removal at the Rockyview a couple days ago, this is exactly the degree of cabin fever I currently find myself suffering from. I am neither well enough to drive, run after my toddler, do any kind of ‘heavy lifting’ or, um, any other activity that might, you know, leave me breathless. And sweaty. And satisfied.
My options are hereby limited to purely shut-in status: relegated to internet surfing, digital cable, and the forever-fail-safe, books.
And while Stephenie Meyer thanks me, and my thoroughly abused PVR is reeling –you’d be amazed at the ‘quality’ shows I justify recording now that I have time to watch them—, the neglected rooms of my house are screaming to be scrubbed, shined and organized. (Tomorrow I promise to, at the very least, make the bed.)
But before I RSVP to a pity party for one, I remind myself, with every sunset, there is a sunrise. And as the week progresses, and certain bans (and bandages) start to lift, plans are in place for some ‘strictly me’ time. That’s right. Post-surgery gripes, turn into post-surgery rights, as in, right for a mid-week pedi and massage, lunches with the girls, and countless fall/winter window/shopping trips to 17th Avenue, Kensington, and Inglewood. (And I just might set up a semi-permanent residence at the new Holt Renfrew. Yes, it’s that gorgeous.)
But enough pamper plans. Several episodes of Intervention, Oprah, Wedded to Perfection, Say Yes to the Dress, 90210 and So You Think You Can Dance (Canada & U.S) are beckoning like irresistible sirens.
Them, and the Tylenol 3, of course.