Getting knocked on my keister is a personal proclivity. Not by choice but rather situational in nature.
I just can’t seem to arrive at a place where life is smooth sailing. In fact, I think I ought to stop believing that I will. It’s disappointing. Reclining in a lounge chair on a beach somewhere with a cold drink in hand (garnished with some fruit and a paper umbrella please) is a go-to fantasy of mine. As in, I sure would rather be there rather than stretched out in a CT scanner, as I will be tomorrow morning.
In all honesty, getting scanned is not such a big deal. Been there, done that, will do it again. And again.
That is something I can count on. It’s the surprises that catch me off guard. Which is surprising, because those too are predictable. At the moment I’m dealing with a major inconvenience that has nothing to do with cancer. Although that isn’t quite accurate, as having cancer often complicates even seemingly simple situations. Plan a trip three months from now? Sure. Maybe.
When the shit hits the fan my emotions generally assume a fetal position. The old duck and crawl–right under the covers. However, the fact that I both live alone and own a dog keeps me honest. Six hours max and I must rise to the occasion.
Which is really very helpful. Sometimes you just have to go through the motions, with an emphasis on moving. Actionable. That’s a beautiful word, connoting possibilities. And although it is not probable, it is possible that both some sand and a long tall cold one are close at hand.