(NOTE: this post was originally entered on May 20, 2012.)
Fourteen class days left. Four weeks to graduation. Twenty-one
days. Twenty-five days until my last final exam. An unfortunate
biproduct of finishing off GEs at the last possible moment.
When I was thirteen I hurt my left knee playing soccer. I did the
whole physical therapy bit (and it sucked, of course) and ended up
wearing a brace to bed every night until March 24, 2011 when I took a
train from Edinburgh to London at the beginning of a three-week long
trip through Greece and Romania and ended up forgetting my brace. I
left it under my pillow in Edinburgh.
But as it turns out, I didn’t need it those three weeks I was gone. I just didn’t.
I hadn’t worn my knee brace for 390 days. After leaving Edinburgh I
put it inside my hollow purple ottoman and it stayed the ottoman at the
foot of my bed all year after moving from San Diego back up to Santa
Barbara. I didn’t have to think about it often—the only other things
I’ve got inside the ottoman are the serving spoons my grandmother gave
me and extra mulled wine spices—but I always knew exactly where my knee
brace was.
And last night I pulled it it out and put it on, and I hate myself a
little bit for it. I got up this morning (afternoon) and did the leg
exercises I’m supposed to do something like three to five times a day,
but I made this horrific, relieved noise when the brace closed over my
knee last night before I could even stop myself and I can’t stop
thinking about how much I hadn’t even realized it hurt until it suddenly
only hurt half as much.
This is mostly just a melodramatic complaint about how difficult it
is to take care of myself. Food every five or so hours (it never
ends!), laundry, exercise—the only enjoyable part of the upkeep are warm
showers.
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