Holding onto my shirt and letting go of my ego.

Today is day seven of my broken shoulder, which, without doing any math, adds up to seven days of wearing the black tee shirt.  My daughter, Emery, is worried about separation anxiety when the two of us eventually 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,  lies somewhere in between.  Out of pure exasperation, on day four, I took scissors to my sports bra, which had been along for the ride since day one, and was able to make enough one-handed cuts to pull it out of my right sleeve.  If this is too much information, I’m sorry.  My life 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 alongside 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.  Thankfully, it is a quick-dry shirt, and people who backpack, such as those on the Colorado Trail, would wear the same shirt for a whole lot longer.  Isn’t that right, Lexi?  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 a highly polished mahogany desk, that I realized I had mustard on my five-times-bathed shirt, and it’s possible that I did not smell petal fresh.  OK, it’s more than likely.  An odor that might be similar to day four or five on the trail comes to mind, but I haven’t received confirmation on that.  My sister, Robin, leaned in pretty closely, though, and assured me that I didn’t stink, but that was three days ago.  She did, however, tell me that the fingernails on my left hand still looked 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 Colorado, 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 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 Colorado, 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 familiar sights 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, it is a necessity 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 for the black T-shirt, 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 precisely 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.

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 four days ago.  I think compromised hygiene in the burbs isn’t as acceptable as it is in the mountains, when assumptions of “just off the trail” could be made, and I will therefore blame my current rants on 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.