health and stuff

It snowed again last night, and turned our fetid pavement slushies back into the winter wonderland that I love so much. The grimy backyard - still littered with tools and broken pots - was again smooth and pristine, the guts of the previous snowman spread about now turning into moutains for snow elves.

The kids were also delighted, and the fact that school was open as usual was only a slight disappointment to them. The renewed snow meant that they'd probably be able to play outside. The previous week's snow had quickly turned to ice which rendered the playground too dangerous to use for the whole week.

Whether or not they'd be able to play outside in the snow today was a moot point to me. I didn't care - so long as they were at school, and I could go to aerobics.

I don't go to the gym for self motivated exercise anymore. I lack the self motivation part of it. So after dropping them off, I headed off to the gym for a Body Attack class. Body Attack is a class that takes aerobics, stuffs it full of crack and then lets it loose in steel capped boots. After Body Attack, you hurt. And it's in capitals because it's trademarked and stuff. I'd have put the trademark sign, but I can't remember which key combo it is.

It was so snowy underfoot that I had to carry my trainers and wear boots instead as the snow was too thick to walk though in trainers with "breathable toes". Suede boots and exercise pants are not a fashion combo in my book. (Although anyone who shops at JD sports probably begs to differ. Or to put that in terms they'd understand - "dun agree wit dat". But I digress.) 

I wasn't going to let a little snow take away my fitness hit.

It was still snowing as I walked there, and the carpark at the gym was completely empty. Amazingly, a few of us were there for the class. But things didn't kick off as hoped, since the instructor was trapped in traffic and running late. (Or more correctly put - sitting late.)

She literally only lives 5 minutes away by car, and has to drive down one hill to get to the gym, but ended up sitting on the high street for over an hour. If there had been any way of pulling off and parking, she could have walked in about 10 minutes. In fact, she would have walked all the way, but had to drop her son off at school first. His school is 5 minutes away in the other direction.

After standing around for half an hour one of the staff brought down a CD with some old Attack music on it, and we decided we'd try making up our own routine. Now, despite the fact we do similar routines every week, and any of us could have probably strung together a decent facsimile of it, no-one was brave enough to pretend to be teacher, so we all started to do a simon says kind of version!

It worked pretty well. If you can call people bumping into one another as they decide to start their own next step. It's probably lucky that only the marginally fit people had braved the weather - there were no fatties generously proportioned members present. That could have resulted in broken bones. But we were happily - and almost harmoniously - grinding away when the instructor walked in, so that was muchos brownie points for us.

But despite our quick warm up, we've now lost 30 minutes of our time slot, and have less than half an hour before the next class. I looked up what kind of class it was and suggested that since it was the "primetime" line dancing class, maybe they'd actually all be safely ensconced in their safe warm homes, rather than tramping down the snow.

The instructor decided to get through the 1 hour class as fast as humanly possible, running over into the next class if they happened to be late or cancelled, so what followed was the most deathdefying routine of aerobics ever undertaken in the history of all aerobics. (But not including competition aerobics, because to be honest, that's a bit insane before it begins, and I've actually seen people land in the splits! What's what THAT!? Oh wait, I just watched it once, by accident. Honest.)

I already described Body Attack as being normal aerobics on crack, but today - with no rests in between, and a few jumps to the next track without even finishing the first - that made it aerobics on crack with an acid chaser and 7 cans of red bull.

Ah, Red Bull. Mmmm. Sorry, I was just having clubbing flashbacks.

As we lay quivering on the floor at the end of 45 minutes - 15 minutes eating into the line dancers' hour - we heard something akin to an elephant at the door.

Despite what I'd suggested, nothing was stopping the suburb's pensioner set from their line dancing. Come hell or high water - or in this case neither, the intrepid grey army had donned their extra waterproof support hose, supergrip house slippers and turned out in force. They were now attempting to jemmy the door open with their one size fits all handbags.

We bid a fast retreat out the back door as the piles of weights and dumbells started to topple.

As I stepped outside the gym the snow was still falling and the the world was still white and clean. Almost. The main road was gridlocked with cars which were sailing along in a sea of dirty slush. But once over that it was back to white. 

Having lived through a class that was close to being on drugs, I was in need of my next favourite drug.

Oh yes, it's coffee time!

I've just staggered back in from the gym, from a "Body Attack" class which was pretty much the first fitness orientated thing I've done since the gallbladder left the building.

It wasn't a pretty sight to be honest. I got a stitch within about 8 minutes of Gloria Gaynor shrieking out how she was going to survive, and I pretty much gave up any belief of my own survival.

But I did manage to make it to the end, by which point I resembled a puppet on a string with a very lazy puppeteer. Or a thunderbird with a twitch.

I am slightly worried that in about 3 hours my muscles are going to suddenly seize up and I'll never walk again. I'll have to drag myself around with my lips. Which will make the school run somewhat embarrassing.

If they don't completely seize up today, then I think I'll go again tomorrow at the risk of inducing total body meltdown. It's dangerous, but I must get fit again! The only other option is to give up chocolate and biscuits, and tell you me, my sweet pretty - that AIN'T happening. I can't deny myself anything. Even for a new year's resolution.

But, January is the month of abstinence in this house. 

Not for me, hell no, for Mr Boxer Shorts. Every January he gives up the booze for a month. Best month of my life for two reasons. 

Firstly, more booze for me. I tend to take UP drinking in January, since I don't drink a lot for the rest of the year. In fact, between being pregnant and breastfeeding, I am pretty much now the cheapest drunk you'll ever meet, and after two small glasses of wine can be coerced in flashing my wobbly bits. It's an experience best left unexperienced.

Hubs, on the other hand, is a seasoned drinker. Actually, he's more like an alcoholic in some respects. Once he starts, he can't stop (for reference, see chinese for one). That means that when a bottle of wine is opened in our house, it's rarely still there the next day. 

So I love January, because there is a bottle of Cloudy Bay in the fridge, and it's mine, ALL MINE! I can make that baby last a whole week with just one glass a day.

You see, I have SELF CONTROL.

(Except for last night, when I was guzzling the Bailieys, and now I have no idea how much is left, since the bottle is heavy and opaque, but I can hear swishing, so tonight that sucker and I are going ALL the WAY.)

The second reason why I love hubs giving up the booze in January is because it makes everything smell better. And I mean everything. You drinkers don't realise how much a habit affects how you smell. It makes a big difference. By the end of January Mr Boxer Shorts' personal aroma will have changed quite a lot. His breath will be sweeter, his sweat less acrid and more natural, and even his nocturnal toots will be less caustic to the delicate membranes of the nose and eyes.

And then, just in time for my birthday, he'll reach the end of the month, and go out on a huge bender. He'll come home smelling like brewery and farting like a leaky nuclear reactor. 

Happy birthday darling, parpppt!

While he's parading himself around during January with that infernal air of smug holiness, I really should do something about my own health. (Just a note, this is NOT a new year's resolution in any way shape or form.)

I've been wanting to get back into running, since I haven't really run since before I had the children. What I really need to do is give myself a goal to aim for. Without a goal, I tend to be totally unmotivated. Or in more realistic terms - too lazy to get off my own arse. 

This is why I go to aerobics classes - they have a starting time so I have to show up, and then someone else yells at me to try harder.

I did the Great North Run in 1999. It was the first run of any magnitude that I'd ever done in my life if you don't count that cross country race that I did when I was 9 (and got lost doing), and I did it in 2 hours 15 minutes. 

I had three thoughts in quick succession as I crossed the finish line, and they were:

1. Holy shit, I am NEVER doing this again.
2. So this is only halfway in a full marathon? F**K THAT!*
3. I think I'll train more before the next one.

I never got the chance to do another one of those, as the year after that I was enrolled in the race again, but managed to get drunk and break my ankle while playing softball in Arizona (I wasn't actually playing softball at the time, this is a story for a whole 'nother blog post!).

The year after that I was 8 months pregnant, and so far too lazy and self obsessed to consider running. So sue me.

And now I am about to hit 40. If I don't get running soon, I am afraid that parts of me will start sliding off, and I won't be allowed to enter, for fear of grossing out everyone else in the race.

So this is another challenge to add to my list. I am not doing the Great North Run again. It's too bloody far away! It took us 9 hours to drive home, and that's just not fun. I need to find a half marathon that is closer to home, and in about 6 months or so.

When I can get off my lazy arse, I'll google that. And meanwhile, pass me that glass of Cloudy Bay and the box of chocolates - my muscles seem to have stopped working now!

* Sorry for the swearing mum. I did add two stars in, but I know you can still read it anyway!

I like tattoos.

I can't make that statement without clarifying that I don't really fancy guys covered from head to foot with tattoos. I certainly don't like the idea of people tattooing their head and face.

But I like tattoos. I like decoration. I don't see why the human body can't be used as a canvas for something beautiful.

There are a lot of reasons why people get tattoos, and many of them are completely spurious. I don't think any tattoo has deep and powerful meaning, or that you need to get a tattoo in order to tell yourself who you are.

I don't think tattooing the love of your life across your forearm is a great idea considering the longevity of most relationships these days. Take Johnny Depp as a case in point. (I am quite happy to take Johnny Depp as anything you like, I have a closet set aside for him to live in.)

I am sure that getting a tattoo in order to prove how brave you are is also a stupid idea. Why not just jump out of a plane or strike up a conversation with the violent thug lurking behind Shaftsbury Avenue in order to prove that.

I just like them.

I have to say, I like them on the smaller side though.

There is such a thing as too many tattoos. And there are wrong tattoos, and there are low class tattoos. I don't have a unicorn tattooed munching about on my bush. I don't want a guardian angel on my breast. I don't want anything that anyone else has chosen from the wall of clippings from their local tattoo parlour.

I think getting a tattoo should stem from having an idea of something you'd like to draw on your skin first, not from deciding you want a tattoo, then finding some unoriginal meme from a flip book.

I have two tattoos. My mother hates both of them. My Grandmother probably liked them both, since she rocked just a little bit, inbetween the blue rinse and the traditional custard in a boil tin.

One is a yin yang, done for all the wrong reasons. Broke up with a guy, got a tattoo. It was supposed to mean that I am whole by myself - I am not one half of something. You don't need a tattoo to tell yourself that. But I still like it. And actually, it's true. I am still one whole. And when added to another whole, mixed in with two halves and a grace note - we make a little music. Greater than the whole. Add in some more wholes and halves, and we make a symphony. That is life, it's all about music and harmony.

My other tattoo is a black cat. My black cat. I'm a cat person, so I drew a black cat so he could be with me always. The eventual tattoo didn't end up exactly like my drawing, but I liked it.

Mr Boxer Shorts doesn't like either of them. He likes to call me a biker's moll, to which I take offence, seeing as I was the one with the ducati, and he was the one with the Vesper T4. I'm the biker, not the moll thankyouverymuch.

Neither of my tatttoos are "Tramp stamps". Tramp stamps are lower back tattoos. Classy much? No. My tattoos are both on my ankle, and for most of the year no-one even notices that they are there.

Both of my daughters want to get a tattoo when they get older. Or at least - they did, until I described how a tattoo is made. Not one to mince words, I made a very visual picture of that needle poking, punching and piercing your skin over and over again in the same place until the whole tattoo is done. Then scabbing over and healing, with the pain and itching that comes hand in hand. As I described the process both faces slowly metamorphosed from a look of glee, to a somewhat melted show of horror. My job here is done. Neither child is fantasising about their new tattoo. They are also not keen to have their ears pierced either, since I drew the analogy of being stapled as a way of describing that bit of fun. See what a good mother I am? Wait until I tell them about sex, huh!

By the time they are old enough to discount my gory details, they'll be old enough to make that decision for themselves. I am hoping that I never have to describe what happens when you come off your motorbike from any personal experience however.

So back on topic. I want a new tattoo. I want a new tattoo because I have something I want to etch into my skin permanently. I want to get the stars of the southern cross done on my shoulder blade in a brown that makes it look like a birthmark. (They don't like inking up with colours that fade easily, but it's my body and my choice. Heard that before?)

I feel I have lost a bit of my Australian identity. I have mostly lost my accent from living here for 13 years, and I have no idea what current affairs in Australia are now. I can't even remember who the PM is now although I am sure my mother has told me. I think I dropped off the voting roll back in 1997. I hope I did - otherwise I face a large fine when I get back!

I don't know who anyone is in Neighbours anymore. Or Home and Away.

These feelings prompted the idea to do this. But these feelings won't be fixed by a tattoo. I don't need a tattoo to prove that I am still Australian, or to magically update my current and social affairs knowledge. I just like the idea and I want to do it.

All I need is someone who is Australian to notice it and know what it is. And know where I am from, and it will be a shared joke. Or maybe they'll believe that I really was born with a birthmark in the shape of the southern cross, and wouldn't THAT be cool!

Photo source: mborowick

I think the thing that sticks in my mind most about the operation was the crazy politcal correctness moment that popped up before I went into theatre.

The nurse said to me "When you come back from theatre, it may be necessary for us to put the side rails up on the bed. Do you give your permission for that to be done?".

I reply "What?"

"It's just to ensure that we don't place restrictions on you without your permission. Some people don't wish to be restrained."

I look at the two half rails on either side of my bed - a total of 1 foot high, with a 2 foot gap in the middle of the bed where they don't meet.

"So, if I don't want to be oppressed by the regime, I can opt to risk falling off my bed while in transit instead. I'll be in pain, but I'll be free!"

She's starting to wonder about my mental state, pen poised over the permission given box.

"Yeah, of course. How stupid would I be? Of course you can put them up. I might should out about oppression, but I give you my permission to ignore me. Shall I sign?"

Having got my all important permission, taken my food orders for later, found out what paper I wanted in the morning and locked my valuables in the little drawer beside my bed, it was time to walk up to the theatre. Having no suitable slippers, I'd ended up taking a pair of keds for this walk. I think I looked very fashionable in my theatre gown and robe.

"You're all rugged up!" said the anesthetist when I arrived in a tiny room that could not have been more cram packed with more scary medical stuff.

"Well, without the robe my paper pants would be on show" I reply. "And that's just not what the world wants to see."

She nods, even though she's never even seen my arse, and they lay me down on the black table in the middle of the room. They call it a bed. In my experience, beds are nice soft places that make you want to lie down on them. This one did no such thing. Plus it started off with some kind of canvas hammock that told me they'd be dragging me about on the floor in it for a laugh once I was out.

This is where it gets embarrassing. I look up and find eeyore and pooh bear dancing about on a colour printout stuck to the ceiling. I start to cry. I'm not brave, and I don't want them shutting down my consciousness with drugs. There are three of them hovering over me. The nurse one is rubbing my arm and reassuring me.

"Just a little scratch" says the anesthetist, who is holding my hand up for the drip. It never is a scratch - it's always a pin prick. It hurts. They put the oxygen mask over my face. I manage to say "please take care of me" in the tiniest voice I have, cracking as I say it. God I wish I was brave.

They put something in the drip to relax me. It burns a bit as it goes in. Then it's time for the knock out drops. "This will be cold" she says. I feel it up to my elbow, wondering when I am going to leave. Wondering if I will wake up again afterwards.

----

It's 10.30am. My first thought is only a sensation of relief. It's over, and I woke up again. I can see my girls again. There is a drip in my left hand, so I can't move that. I hate drips, the idea that something is both inside and outside you. I am terrified that if I knock it it will hurt. So I keep that hand motionless.

They wheel me out of the recovery room. "Let's take the stairs" I tell the man pulling me. It takes him a moment to realise I've made a funny. Someone made the elevators the perfect size for the beds, but forgot about fat dumpy nurses. I wonder if she's going to turn beet, but the doors open at the new floor.

I've lost some time in the memory, because this them moving me from my first room to the the second. For some reason they shut down the ward I was in and move us all downstairs. How did I get from the theatre to my first room? I remember being pulled onto my bed on the canvas hammock, then rolling side to side to remove it. That was in the first room. I remember her closing my bag and picking up my porcelain Toby, and me telling her that there was a DS in the drawer.

We make it into the new room, and they park the bed in the right place. But no-one hooks the nurse button anywhere I can reach it - or the bed controls. The water is next to me, but I drink it all and then I am parched. I can see the clock on the wall in the corridor outside. I close my eyes and doze for a few hours. I check the clock - 5 minutes has gone by. My throat is now sticking to itself, my tongue is glued to the top of my mouth. It's like sticky leather. I flail around with my good arm looking for the nurse button. I can't reach it.

I close my eyes and another hour long 5 minutes go by. Eventually 20 minutes go by and nurse walks past. I croak at her and finally get her attention. She brings me fresh water and then dashes off before I can tell her I can't reach the nurse button.

Finally someone hooks me back up and I can play with the bed controls. I spend the next fews hours alternating between reading my book and dozing, giving each pursuit about 15 minutes slots before switching back. I can't make myself wake up properly, and feel alternately alert and dozy.

My in-laws arrive with my girls. They nearly pounce on my stomach, but are restrained thankfully! They come bearing chocolates and flowers. They want to open the chocolates immediately, but it turns out that they are rum balls.

"Sorry, no alcoholic chocs for little girls!"

They stay for a few hours, while we chat about everything and nothing. It passes the time well. I am waiting for my beef bourguignon to arrive, but it doesn't. Eventually Miss Comic Relief announces "I want to go home and have dinner". I smile.

I am relieved when they go, and wait for my dinner to arrive, but it doesn't. Turns out that when I'd asked for a bucket as I was queasy they'd taken me off the dinner list. But I am hungry and say so.

Dinner arrives - the beef bourguignon and vegetables looks very nice. A decadent chocolate torte sits beside it. I try to eat the vegetables, but am too queasy, so it is taken away again after three bites, as they decide to give me an anti nausea shot. Half an hour later I feel a hell of a lot better and get my dinner back. The chocolate torte is now missing.

I am straight on the buzzer. The chocolate torte comes back.

It's late now, and I want to sleep. But every time I have a glass of water, I urgently need a wee. A teeny tiny trickle of a wee. It's horribly unfair, but I spend the night having 1 hour of sleep between wee trickle breaks. At 4.30am I realise I had a 2 hour sleep. Yay, breakthrough! Then they are waking me up to give me drugs. Can't complain about that.

Breakfast arrives at 8. The doctor sticks his nose in again before leaving for his other hospital. I feel like we're having an affair. "See you Friday week" he says. I wave my porridge spoon at him.

At 9.30am a nurse says she'll be right back to take out my cannula, so that I can have a shower. An hour later I stick my head out the door to find out what exactly "right back" really means. Another nurse decides to do it for me, and I get in the shower. That's blissful. Hot water really does cure a lot of ailments.

When I am done I decide to ring the buzzer. A third nurse looks in - looking harried.

"I've had my shower" I say "I am ready for her to change my dressings"

"I think she's busy right now" says the nurse

"I am just letting you know that I am ready when she is" I say.

The second nurse overhears this, and comes in to do my dressings. I think the first nurse must be having a bad day, and the second nurse is covering for her.

She peels the plastic strips off my four incisions, then sprays each one over with glue. It was like being varnished. I have a good look at each hole. The largest is just underneath my breastbone, and is about 1cm in length. The stitches are visible, the edges look a little angry. The centre is a thick line of congealed blood. The other three just look like blobs of blood congealed on top, no holes are visible.

I pull my fresh t-shirt down carefully and am ready to leave. Mr Boxer Shorts and Miss Trouble Pants walk in. It's sunny outside, despite the mad wind and rain from the previous night. I feel like a cardboard copy of myself, not all there, not the right shape. But it's done, I hand my discharge slip to the main desk and we leave the hospital and drive home together - a small bottle of stones in my bag.