Hi readers. Thanks for coming by for a read.
Once it became obvious the Olathe Medical Center Cardiac Physical Therapy folks weren’t opening the doors on Independence Day, I knew I was in trouble. Felt the pressure building, depression setting in. Scurried around searching under things for anti-depressant drugs, then remembered I’ve never had any of those.
Hell, here the colonies declare themselves free to select their own masters instead of the British ones who’d been turning up their noses for so long, and the hired help start wanting holidays to celebrate having a different set of masters.
And here my old ticker I’m trying to persuade to kick up the ejection to, say, 20% instead of 10%-and-some-change is whining and complaining that I’m not lifting a finger to help it along. Heart muscle giving winks and nods to the defibrillator, whispering to the lungs and arteries that I’m a lazy, no-good-for-nuthun slacker wastrel.
Obviously I couldn’t sit still for that. If I’m ever going to climb any more mountains, if I’m going to find the Lost Adams Diggings, damn me, I’m going to have to do physical therapy whether the hospital is shut down, or whether the whole bunch is out there eating hot dogs and popping fireworks.
So I joined the Olathe Community Center gym for a month. Went down there early this morning, walked around acting like real people, mounted a walking machine and walked the hell out of things. Wandered over to the weight machines and humped my upper body a while whoopteedoo. Walked around the track looking down on pee-filled hot tubs and swimming pools, looking out windows into the parking lot, at pictures hung on the walls.
Sagged to my knees and breathed a while, telling the bastards who were asking if I was okay to mind their own damned business. Piss me off.
Feeling pretty groovy, all things considered.