Yesterday was the day I was going to try acupuncture for my 20-years-old back problem. (Yes. I changed my mind and switched from massage. No, I did not tell you. But it was in the comments! Read the comments, people!) It was also a billion degrees outside.
I wilt in the heat. I grew up with a pool, so unless there is the option to jump in a swimming pool or go into someplace air conditioned, I wilt like so much lettuce. I also sweat out the top of my head more than anywhere else, so you can imagine how warm it gets, not to mention the effect on any hairstyle. And, to help with that, my car’s air conditioning died sometime around 2006, and we cannot afford to get it fixed this year. So the half-hour drive to the acupuncturist was a warm one indeed.
Add to the heat my nervousness at the prospect of letting a stranger stick needles close to my spine, and you can imagine how incredibly, uncomfortably warm I was.
When I climbed up on the exam table, I was melting. And lying on your stomach in such circumstances does not help matters. And I had needles stuck in my lower back in short order, followed quickly by electropulses, so finding a comfortable position was nigh unto impossible.
I was so warm that the paper they put on exam tables literally disintegrated beneath me. It melted.
And I am not good when I am uncomfortably warm. Not good at all. So that hour was not my best day ever.
The backupuncture was fine. Acupuncture is a weird sensation — needles are stuck in but they are not pointy so much as putting pressure on points in your body, like a strange micro-massage. And he’d stick them in to test how deep to go and wiggle them around and it was strangely uncomfortable. And having these things pulsing with electrical energy was an unusual feeling. I cannot describe it. It was occasionally quite painful, almost. But once he had it set to the right amount, and I was cooling down and was able to just relax, it was not bad.
I don’t think it did much, but then, this is a very old injury and one treatment of any sort will not do it. But I think it has potential to help me, and so I am willing to give it a go — for as long as we can afford it, anyway. It’s not cheap, and not covered by the provincial health plan. But I am booked in again tomorrow, so we’ll see how it goes. And I am praying for a cooler day.
I got home, and decided to start washing and putting away the billions of baby clothes we now have for Mystery Baby Girl. I took a box of 6-12 month clothes upstairs, started streaming an episode of Coupling on the computer, and began sorting by colour. I would take a bunch down to start the washer, and come back to find Cinnamon rooting through the yellow fuzzy stuff. I would go downstairs and into the baby’s room to look for more things of a certain colour, and come back to find Lucy tunnelling into a fleece somethingorother.
Finally, armed with a squirt gun and waving my arms frantically, I shouted at the lot of them, “These are NOT! YOUR! CLOTHES! These are BABY CLOTHES! You! are! not! BABIES!!”
You can imagine how effective such a speech would be on a room full of cats.
Lucy gave me a look of “No habla ingles” and flopped down on a pair of overalls.
I did a couple of loads of clothes and went to bed.
This morning, we got up and BDH pointed to the basket full of pink things sitting in the bathroom and asked, “Are these clean?”
I told him yes, they were.
“Not so much anymore,” he said.
It seems BDH got up to pee in the middle of the night and went into the bathroom. It was dark. In the dark, he heard the “peep peep peep” sound that Duncan makes when he is talking in a friendly way to somebody. He switched on the light to find Duncan happily relaxing in a pile of pink.
“You’re not a girl,” said BDH.
This morning, I added, “No, but he IS a baby. And perhaps he feels he looks good in pink.”
Some men do, you know.