The Things I Do and Don’t

 

The Things I Do and Don’t

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A couple thousand years ago, somebody famous, broadly paraphrased, said, we do things we know aren’t good for us (or for others) and don’t do the things we know to be good.

Well, what can I say? The shoe fits. Oh, I can always say more. Not only do I do what’s not good for me, but I lie to myself and convince myself that it doesn’t really matter.

I’ve worked hard at catching myself and changing my mind before rip-roaring into action. About forty years of hard work. And it is hard work. No floating about on a pink cloud for me. Dang it. But I still am quite capable of stabbing myself in the foot, so to speak, and convincing myself it doesn’t really hurt as I bleed out on the floor.

For example, take physical therapy. I mean, take it. You can have it.

Despite my disparaging attitude, I’m a master student of PT. I’ve had six major surgeries on my legs, the resulting damage from a car crash when I was a mere young’un.  After each surgery, I underwent the tortures of physical therapy with master craftsmen. These men were good.

I was bad. Once I got to where I could function relatively well and they released me out into the wide world, I asked each of them, “How long should I keep up the exercises?” Each time I asked, I hoped for a different answer. Each time, the reply was the same, “For the rest of your life.” Each time, as soon as the therapist released me from servitude, I quit the routines.

Until this last time. I reasoned that this surgery gave me a new life and I’d best take care of myself. So after a few weeks of therapy when the current plague ramped up, I released the therapist but kept up the routines, even increasing the repetitions of each exercise. Atta Girl!

Until one day, after more than a year into my routine, I quit, without conscious thought. Truly, I never made a decision to quit. I’m not sure when this happened, maybe January, February. The routine wasn’t hard. It didn’t even take that much of my time, certainly not too much time in a Covid world in which I struggle to fill my days with tasks meaningful to myself.

Here’s where the lies come in, right? I still feel good, I tell myself. I don’t miss the routine, boring, or at least, mindless. Weeks passed. I seldom thought about my old morning pattern. When I did, I continued to say to myself, lying like a rug, I feel good. See, it doesn’t make any difference. I’m okay. I’m fine.

I have no explanation for what happened recently. One morning I was lying in bed, my new morning routine, listening to the birdsong, greeting the morning, accompanied by the shrill cacophony of the cicadas.

And just like that, for no discernable reason, I began to do the leg lifts. Did a couple sets, in fact. I had given this no conscious thought; didn’t think about it at all. Just started in on my physical therapy routine, greatly surprising myself. Humph, I said to myself. Wonder what that was all about?

Next morning I did the same, repetition without thought. Now, I may lie to myself but I won’t lie to you. I haven’t continued with the entire-whole-every-single-exercise-physical-therapy routine. Just the leg lifts, which are the hardest and what I dreaded the most. Oh, and one other thing I do that Miguel said is good for blood circulation which I had never quit. That’s it. Two out of a half-dozen simple exercises.

And so it goes. Maybe it’s the new me. I’ve only racked up a few mornings so far. But, I have to confess, I feel good. I feel better. And this time, I don’t tell big porkies to myself.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 3, 2021

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Human Nature Being What It Is . . .

Human Nature Being What It Is . . .

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            I hate physical therapy. Writing with a computer means you’ll give me no sympathy. If we were talking face-to-face, I’d be able to mumble, “It’s my own fault. I quit too soon. It’s been mumble-mumble-slurred-words since I quit. Arturo told me I should do these few simple movements forever. Sheesh!” And you’d pat my hand and say, “There, there. Poor thing.”

            And if I were using pencil on depleted rain-forest, I could smear the tell-tale number with my tears of frustration and you’d never know I quit PT two years ago. I can hear you say, disgust tingeing your voice, “Two years! Your own fault! No pain, no gain.”

            Having vented my spleen, I can also tell you that three-and-a-half weeks into a routine, PT does me body good. I mean, two years! No wonder I hurt. I’m slowly increasing reps, feeling the burn (Why do people make that sound like a good thing?) and gaining noticeable strength in my legs.

Whether human nature or my own natural cussedness, when I recently interrupted my painful routine for three days, I did so with reluctance and disappointment. The reason?

Strawberries. Fragile, delicious strawberries.

Near as I can tell, strawberry season seems to be year around here. Whenever I’m in town near the Plaza, I look for the strawberry truck, across the street from the Guadalajara Farmacia. I generally buy a kilo, twenty pesos.

I decided next time to pick up six kilos and make mermelada—jam, to us. So when Carol asked if I’d like to go with her Thursday to the tianguis, street market, in Ahualulco. My first thought was “strawberries”. 

We’d barely entered town when we spotted a small pick-up, loaded with crates of berries, ten pesos a kilo; women lined in back up by the man with the scale. Carol squeezed her Jeep close to the truck, blocking three vehicles. I jumped out and got in line; six kilos for me, two kilos for Carol. The man indicated a crate. Since I wanted eight kilos total, why not take the whole crate for a hundred pesos. This is around $5.00 to us. Made sense to me. At the time.

There was no place to park within blocks of the tianguis so we decided to go on down the road to Teuchitlan. Carol wanted to buy a sculpture she’d seen at Carlos’ Artisan shop. I visited with Carlos and Brenda, new acquaintances.

We stayed an hour. With the hot sun beating down on the roof of the car, sweet strawberry fragrance permeated every molecule of air, reminding me I’d have to deal with them immediately when I got home. I handed Carlos a plastic bag, “Take some; take more.”

When I say a crate of strawberries, you have to realize the size of the crate. What was I thinking! This monster, which seemed to expand in the back of the Jeep, measured 20 X 13 X 12, heaped full of berries. It took both of us to carry it to my outdoor kitchen sink. Carol didn’t rake out nearly enough. I don’t think she realized a kilo is 2.2 pounds. Oh, well, I’d give her some jam.

I grabbed an apron and paring knife and began washing, hulling and chopping immediately. I have no idea how many kilos of berries that crate held; at least, twenty. I worked until dark and still had half a crate unfinished. Aching feet forgotten, I slept hard.

Morning found me hulling berries at first light. I finished the crate. In the beginning, I carefully cut away every blemish. It wasn’t long before any blemished berry hit the throw-away pile along with the hulls.

I had a limited number of jars and no pectin. This meant I made jam using the long-cook method. I made two batches and called it a good day. Next afternoon and three batches later, I finished. I filled my own canning jars along with every borrowed vessel I could find, fill and give away.

Canning jars, bright with berry jam, are as beautiful as any art. Making jam satisfies something primal within my soul. But, honestly, it’s cheaper to buy jam in town and I really like the kind at the tienda near the bazaar.

Maybe I’ll skip making mango jam this year. But, I heard of a place in Guadalajara where I can buy canning jars. Six kilos of mangos should be enough if I make it in secret and not give any away.

Perverse as it may be, I’m glad to be back to regular routine, including morning PT, which I still hate.

P.S. For those following the plight of my friend Carlitos, the tumor is shrinking and his family is hopeful for recovery. He’s not out of the woods, but the trees don’t seem impenetrable.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

June 8, 2017

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