The temperature outside has started to sharpen a little this week, just chilly enough to remind us what is coming. But unlike many (normal) people who are excited to welcome pumpkin-spice latte season or to enjoy the dramatic colours of the changing leaves, I find myself remembering the epic thrill of being selected as not only the class “monitor” but also, a school Crossing Guard …
I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.
These were heady times, indeed.
I thought you might enjoy a wee sampling from the Speranza Now Archives, way back to April 2018! Enjoy …
Before and after the Easter holidays, I traditionally take a few days off to complete projects I have been meaning to return to (I’m looking at you, streamlined recipe binders) no longer flinging ragged sheets everywhere as I squeeze your gaping three rings closed with an arthritic, crocodilian snap.
But in-between bursts of energy like this, The General and I have shut the doors against the snow and wind and taken to wandering around with cups of scented tea and wedges of sticky Baklava, talking for hours about topics as diverse as Sidney Bechet, British trade unionists (to be fair, we were considering The Perfect Dog Name for a dog we do not have – yet) and soon to be perused Roberto Bolaño, the poet that Patty Smith mentions so often in M Train.
In short, it’s my idea of bliss.
So, sciatica is a pain in the arse (literally) but when I first felt that familiar current of pain, like a key in a lock, exactly twelve hours after I had smugly completed an online fitness class (only Level 2, which was basically designed for a lazy octogenarian – I exaggerate, but not much) – I was feeling very sorry for myself indeed. What is it about back pain that can bring you to your emotional knees so quickly? Firstly, all those jokes that circulate about knowing you are middle aged when “you can put your back out reaching for a slice of pizza” are no longer remotely funny but instead, spirit crushingly depressing. The pain and tightness was so severe that I could not put my socks on – I was crying with the effort. My usual go-to’s all help -a bit- such as putting an ice pack down the back of my pants; taking Advil till the hour is more seemly for a glass of wine; stretching like a slow-motion Georgia O’Keefe every hour, on the hour; supporting myself against the shower wall like an upright Sphinx while blasts of scalding water hit my spine; and best of all, leaning deeply into a tiny tennis ball till the bright, exquisite pain/relief that comes from dissolving a pressure point kicks in. Then, for seven minutes, I can dance, leap and yes, put socks on.
But then repeat all of the above again and again.