Somehow, I never made it to Target yesterday. By the time I decided to leave the house, it was after 12. I shook my head at the traitorous clock chiding myself over my lack efficiency. I used to be so organized. Well, maybe I just thought that of myself, languishing in years of self-indulgent praise. After all, I was worth it, wasn’t I? What a load of crap.
With some degree of resignation, I ventured down the hill to the drug store to peruse the section that might have glucosamine and chondroitin for my less than limber joints. Well, they’re still quite limber, they just hurt like a sonuvvahbitch. It wasn’t tough to find, there was so much of it. And just to keep me occupied, there were combinations of the two — how convenient. From what I’d read, both were necessary for my annoyingly persistent aches, so why not save having to choke down more than one horse-sized pill a couple of times a day.
It’s just unbelievable how much this stuff costs. Talk about having us by the short hairs. Let’s see — ache until your eyeballs fall out, or shell out the 25 bucks for a month’s supply. How much can it cost to make the damn things, anyway? And what about the side effects? I deplore taking pills or caplets, or anything that is supposed to “fix me” for any reason. I’m highly suspicious of the conflicting reports the media spreads about the benefits or lack thereof that “dietary supplements” can have. In the case of glucosamine, it seems that to alleviate the achiness in my joints, I will only have to tolerate increased intestinal gas. Great.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m so excited to be able to now understand why the loving endearment Old Fart exists and that I may soon be a card carrying member.
I tentatively settled on a brand I easily recognized. But after picking up one container, holding on to it while I read a few more labels, then placing it back in its slot to retrieve another, and proceed to repeat the whole indecisive process, I had to wonder whether the druggist who was encased in his shop a few feet away thought I was a loon or not. I finally chose “Triple Flex.” All the ingredients and quantities checked out, and I allowed myself to be coerced by the image of a slick sports like body wrapped in a computer generated grid that appeared on the box. So, that wasn’t too bad.
I, too, could possibly have a body with a grid wrapped around it. Perhaps be the next 6 Million Dollar Old Fart.
On the other side of the aisle were products I’d seen before and dismissed back in February when I was of a mind to tough this surgically induced menopause bullshit out. Now that it’s seriously kicking me in the ass throughout every day, like I said yesterday, “I’ve been pinned,” so I better figure it out. But there’s just something bizarre about the whole hormone thing and I wander over to the section that has other “personal” products like condoms, personal lubricant, hot flash cold packs and what I was looking for — Progesterone & Phytoestrogen. It comes in a container that sort of looks like deoderant. I saw this product months ago and have kept it in mind, wondering if it would be better than the heinous HRT cellophane patches I wore on my abdomen for a month before rebelling and abandoning their use. Somehow this “measured dosage pump” of “purified water, aloe vera gel, sunflower seed oil, natural glycerine, shea butter, stearic acid, natural progesterone,” and a litany of other things that don’t exactly sound “natural” seems less threatening. Why not just try it? If I have hair growing on my palms after a month, I’ll rethink my strategy, right?
Nearly 50 bucks poorer, I then made my way to the kitchen store in the same mall to purchase the juniper berries I knew they’d have for the beef daube I was making for dinner. Yes, juniper berries. And yes, they look just like the berries we’d pick off the junipers in front of our house and fire at one another. Who knew? So, I didn’t get to wander the aisles at Target, but this was better. I love the kitchen store. After staring at depressing supplements for a half hour, fondling brioche pans, salivating over imported balsamic vinegar, and lusting after a new rectangular fluted tart pan, I was more than fine. For a while.
After catching up with the RT and his daily report on how the new school year is going and what kind of homework he has, I puttered around in the kitchen preparing dinner, expecting to be in better spirits. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. So I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed my book and headed up to the bathtub for a soak. The phone rang on the way with the MoH calling to let me know how late he’d be. “How was your day?” he asked, not expecting my response. After all, how could one have a less than stellar day when nearly zero is required with respect to responsibility. “I’m not feeling all that hot, so I’m headed up to take a bath,” I explained. The few seconds of silence on the phone was expected as taking a bath is yet another thing that I just don’t do. And before dark? Unheard of. In five years, I’ve probably used my bathtub fewer than 10 times. But a cool bath just seemed to be the ticket to breaking the malaise that had been dragging me down all day. I told the MoH that it was no big deal. That I’d be fine by the time he got home.
I opened the window to let the wind in, poured in a ridiculous amount of something milky, bubbly and promising rejuvenation, made sure the water was luke warm, then settled in. Waiting until the water was a few inches from the top, I turned off the faucet. Waiting for the water to work its cool, soothing wonders. Feeling the gentle pushing of air against the blinds over the window. Listening to the rustle of the palms. Watching the golden glow of early evening sun against the chimney above the skylight. Melting.
Maybe I’ve been wrong about baths all these years.
I could get used to this.
Maybe I should blow the dust off my Pilates book. That should be much easier on my joints instead of power intervals and walking lunges.
But I’ll have to work out how to lay on the mat, keep my glasses on my face so I can read the directions, and do the routines.
Hell, who said any of this ever was easy? Huh?