In Which She Imitates A Sloth

Not purposefully, mind you. It’s just how I feel after overdoing it yesterday. Fibrosloth! (Hmm. May need a fibrosloth icon.)

Yesterday morning I found myself craving fresh peaches, with no idea where the craving night have come from. Amanda then told me that she’d seen the first Niagara peaches now available here in markets; Mum mentioned she’d bought her first peaches last weekend, but I thought it would be at least another week here. Yay! Then I had the weirdest urge to learn to play The Swan. What is *with* me today?, I wondered. So with an hour before I had to leave, I pulled out the sheet music to The Swan. (Well, I didn’t have peaches, so cello it was.) And lo and behold, there was much absence of suckage in The Swan! (Well, except for bar 8. Stupid scale run with accidentals.) Judging from my well-meaning but full of fail previous fingerings, I was enthusiastic but not confident enough in shifting before. Or rather, not confident enough in my knowledge of the geography of the fingerboard, meaning I tried to shift as rarely as possible, leading me to play in awkward positions longer than I really needed to. I even managed some nice subtlety of expressions and some very attractive timbre.

I headed out to meet friends for lunch via bus and Metro, and used the Touch as an MP3 player for the first time. It was stupidly exciting. Also embarrassing, because I couldn’t figure out how to actually get something to, you know, play. Oy. Yay for random button-mashing. (Or touch-screen mashing. Oh Apple, why can you not be consistent in what needs a double-click and what does not?)

Lovely lunch in the company of excellent friends, but I ended up totally wiped regardless. We had a three-hour lunch, then MLG offered to keep me company and drive me to the library as it looked like rain, but we walked all the way back to where he’d parked at Mackay’s, and that ten-minute brisk walk plus the humid air downed me. It’s a worse fibro week than I thought. So no Bibliotheque nationale for me; he drove me home instead, bless him.

So this morning I had to figure out whether I should drive downtown to the library after dropping Liam off and picking something up from Paze, or go in by bus and metro tomorrow. I felt so stupidly paralyzed by the decision. Thursdays always feel rushed anyway, but if I drove I could get the whole thing done in less time. And there’s always meter parking around Archambault around ten in the morning. I made the decision to go, but by the time I got to Paze’s I was wiped. Yesterday’s outing just killed me. By the time I left her place I knew I couldn’t go downtown; I could barely concentrate enough to get home. No driving downtown for me. I did do the local running around (had to hit the bank three times, because I forgot one of the several transactions I had to do EVERY TIME, gah) and came back home to do the freelance thing.

I started working on the last part of this particular freelance gig, and in waltzed the self-doubt. I don’t know whether some of this doesn’t make sense because it’s bioengineering-speak, or because English is the writer’s second language. It occurs to me that it might also be due to the fibro-fog, requiring me to reread sentences several times in order to make head or tail of them.

Well, I’m done now; I’m just doing a final reread to make sure I haven’t missed anything, before sending it off to the grad student. Then I think I shall pass out.

2 thoughts on “In Which She Imitates A Sloth

  1. Darroch

    Fibrosloth strikes me as being perhaps the oddest superhero concept ever, with an origin based a freak knitting accident involving radioactive sloth fur yarn…

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