No one-track mind#039; in this place
Sometimes the problem with writing a column
for me, at least
isn't trying to figure out a subject as my topic for the week as much as it is trying to narrow it down to a single, central subject.
I do not have the proverbial one-track' mindoh no, mine's trying to go full steam down numerous sets of rails simultaneously, often resulting in a cranial train wreck somewhere along the way.
Sometimes this is more literal than figural. This past week I had an afternoon when I was feeling really rather well, quite chipper, in fact. These (good' days) being rather a rarity for me of late, I decided to tackle several things around the house (and not a moment too soon. No one has ever mistaken me for Martha Stewart).
I'd catch up on laundry, scrub the kitchen counters, get that three-part story I've been working on completed on the laptophey, I'd finally get those living room shelves cleaned off.
Soon, the laundry was spinning and tossing its way to April freshness.' My left arm was positively buff from the sweat equity I'd put into those disinfected countertops. I was more than half-way through the second installment of a brilliantly entertaining little epic I was penning for the paper.
But waittime for a time-out. A glass of tea and then on to the bookshelves!
Why clutch one figurine at a time when you can manage two or three', I said to myself.
And stretching is good for your fibromyalgia', I added, so don't bother to move that other stuff out of the wayhum, I wonder how I should phrase the next paragraph of that'
For a split second I wondered who the joker was that had come up behind me and beaned me on the back of my skull.
(I dearly wanted to give them a piece or two of my mind but I was afraid said brain matter was now oozing out and I couldn't afford to give up any of it.)
Then it dawned on me that the cute not-so-little wooden doo-dad' that usually sat on top of this shelf was no longer there. It was lying beside my unsteady feet with a couple of blonde hairs stuck to it.
I was relieved to see there was no blood or other icky stuff adhering to this sinister blunt instrument. I was gratified that I found no gaping holes in my scalp. I was mighty glad, for once, to have both a thick head of hair and a thick old Wood-Killough head to my credit.
However, it still hurt. I blubbered, I moaned, I wailed a bit, unnerving all the cats and sending the three-legged kitten scampering drunkenly to the far bedroom.
I called my long suffering spouse and sat, sniffing and holding a bag of ice on my head until he could drive the 12 miles home and do his own check-up on me.
Arriving home, Dr. Benny' immediately went to work and did some gentle probing of my battered cranium. "Look at meOK, your pupils look normalwatch my fingers. Follow them with your eyeswell, OK, that seems to all check out."
He then whipped out his PDA (In layman's terms. one of those itsy-bitsy handheld computer-type thingamajigs) and checked its first aid listing for head injuries.
Since I was not bleeding profusely (thank God! Imagine getting that out of smoke blue carpeting) or doing other scary stuff, like dying, I was given a painkiller and ordered to bed with my head elevated (and iced).
"Well, I must confess I'm glad I didn't have to come home and find you dead on the floor with the cats waiting for you to get up and feed them," my husband said cheerfully as he stretched out beside yours truly on the bed to watch the boob tube.'
"But I was feeling so
good and getting things done, until that happened," I stammered, wincing as I tried to find a comfortable position in which to rest my weary head.
"Maybe you should consider concentrating on one thing at a time?"
Good advice, but I fear this here brain train' has done got used to runnin' on one too many tracks
At least the counters are clean.