Holding onto my shirt, letting go of my ego and a mustard stain embarrassment

Today is day 7 of my broken shoulder, which without doing any math, adds up to 7 days of wearing the black tee shirt.  My daughter, Emery, is worried about separation anxiety when the two of us eventually will go our separate ways, and my sister, Robin, insists that I will never want to see, let alone wear, the shirt again and will likely lay it to rest in the garbage can.  The truth, I’m guessing,  lays somewhere in between.  Out of pure exasperation, on around day 4, I did take scissors to my sports bra that had been along for the ride since day one,  and was able to make enough one-handed cuts to pull it out my right sleeve.  If this is too much information, I’m sorry.  My life kind of feels like a too much information situation these days.  I need to vent.

Before any judgements are made, and I would hardly blame you, I have been washing my shirt right along side all my other parts, as I’m still wearing it as much as I’m wearing my left arm, which I now wish I could have dropped off at the emergency room and picked up when it was healed.  I guess you could say my shirt has become a part of me.  Would it help if I added that it is a quick dry shirt and people who backpack, the Colorado Trail for example, would wear the same shirt for a whole lot longer?  Isn’t that right, Lexi Schmidt??  In truth, my justifications here are much more directed to myself than they are to my audience.  I came to that realization while sitting in a bank lobby yesterday morning.  It was there, while seated on the other side of of a highly polished, mahogany desk, that I realized I had mustard on my four times bathed shirt and it’s possible that I did not smell petal fresh.  OK, it’s more than possible.  An odor that might be similar to day 4 or 5 on the trail comes to mind, but I’ve not gotten confirmation on that.  Robin did lean in pretty closely though and assured me that I didn’t stink, but that was 3 days ago.  She did, however, tell me that the fingernails on my left hand still looked kind of muddy, which sadly is true.  Thank goodness for sisters, who will tell you what you need to hear and will wipe your tears afterwards. She must not have noticed the mustard.

How is it that the mustard stain didn’t show up in the mountains of CO, which is where the consumption took place, but did show up in the lobby of Commerce Bank two days post consumption?  Did the two storied windows, high ceilings, large commercial art installations and hushed tones bring an awareness that simply went unnoticed while in the more rugged, rough and tumble mountain environment?  Of course once you notice something then try to ignore it, not look at it, pretend it’s not there, it seems to explode, right before your very eyes.  I wanted the neatly, unstained banker to ask about my injury, so I could give some credibility to the contraption that seemed to be wearing me, but he didn’t and I didn’t want to be THAT girl who couldn’t wait to share my tale of woe.  I was asked by everyone I passed in CO, or so it seemed, what had happened to my arm, or more specifically, which sport played a role in the injury?  A slinged arm, a braced knee or a supportive crutch are common sight in my neck of the mountains and the curious asking is as much about gleaning information on trail conditions as it is to offer empathy.  Given the bruised visual aide, perhaps the banker was simply being professional and even thoughtful to avoid the subject, which could have just as easily been the result of an angry boyfriend, drunk brother-in-law or any anger-fueled ruckus as far as he was concerned..

I’m feeling vulnerable.  I can’t tie my shoes, button or zip my jeans (at least donning yoga pants makes me feel a little post-workout”ish”) and I can’t pull my hair back into a ponytail by myself.  My long, curly hair in this current KS post rain humidity is …well it’s not pretty, or small and although asking for help is not an easy task for me, asking someone to tie back my hair is such a necessity right now.  It’s been a day at a time situation that I’ve lucked out on so far with friends or family who have dropped by (thank you, Rhonda…).  But if/when luck doesn’t show up, I’m all in for waiting for my mailman (who is a woman) and will ask her.  My pride is waning.  So is my ego.

Still…

As far as the black tee shirt goes, frankly, I’m afraid to take it off.  My physical therapist friends have given me the instructions on removal, which is bad arm through the sleeve first…or was it good arm first?  Whichever way, I’m obviously not ready for the task.  Besides, the immobilizing sling would have to come off first, which scares me even more.  I’m a good patient to the point of flirting with being a bit neurotic, and if the ER doc told me to keep it immobilized, well then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.  He didn’t tell me to shower daily, change out of that black tee and quit eating stuff with mustard on it, or that’s exactly what I would be doing.

I know this could have been a lot worse and I did declare on my last post that I only needed another 24 hours or so of complaining, which was at least 4 days ago.  I think compromised hygiene in the burbs simply isn’t as acceptable as it is in the mountains, when assumptions of “just off the trail” could be made, and will therefore blame my current rants to hygiene issues, or lack thereof. A little shirt scrubbing in the shower and a tie back on this unruly hair and I’ll be as good as new.  Well… kind of.

This is probably a creepy addition to my post, but my friend, Rhonda thought the colors were beautiful and snapped this photo.  Sadly, the lighting hardly does it justice,  An unexpected silver, I mean purplish black, lining.