My back started bothering me during the opening breathing exercise at Bikram this morning. I was beginning to think that I would start standing up again soon, and then this happened. I was able to walk out of the class, but others carried my stuff out to the car.
Most of the day was spent flat on my back on my loveseat/anti-gravity sofa with a heating pad, sleeping on and off. I did get some reading done. I finished the Sunday NY Times and some of the book the church handed out for Christmas, Rediscover the Saints, by Matthew Kelly. His books are distributed to families in the parish every Christmas. They are the Reader's Digest version of spirituality, but I find parts thought-provoking.
One chapter was about having productive daily routines. The pull is always between following a prearranged routine or inspiration. Both can be life-giving; both can be deadening. Most people understand how routine can be deadening: you are compulsively harnessed to a treadmill of your own making. But relying on inspiration can also be deadening: you can put something off until inspiration is strong enough to rock you out of your inertia.
I have been looking at a corner of the laundry room for several years now. Each time I do a laundry, and I see that corner, I think, "I have to organize that stuff and clean those 12 square feet of dust, gecko poop, and dead worms." It's been years. I have always walked away and forgotten about it. It weighed on me like a small pebble, but I have not been inspired to do anything about it.
Today I took care of it. It was inspiration that moved me. Because my back was bothering me, most of the day was spent on the couch with a heating pad, sleeping. When my back was good enough to walk with only minor discomfort, I took to the computer to play FreeCell. Then, out of the blue, I was inspired to take care of the area. I had been strategizing on how to deal with some of the problems that blocked my action. I couldn't bend down to get into the area. Ah, sweep the objects out into the open and then pick them up. That worked. All that's stored there are cleaning appliances, brooms, sponge mop, vacuum parts, and squeegees. Most of these objects are going to Habitat for Humanity. I haven't used them since I moved in. I think it is safe to say I don't need them.
After I finished with the corner of the laundry room, I took care of another shelf in the library. While I was finishing up that task, B arrived to replace my toilet innards. In the process of emptying the toilet, he flooded the bathroom. He had asked for a pail, but I told him not to bother. I would use the occasion to wash the bathroom floor. My usual way of doing it is to turn the shower hose attachment on the floor and vacuum it up with my fantastic Rainbow vacuum. This was the first time since Mike died in March that I have done a complete washing of the floor. I have done some spot cleaning.
While B was here, I asked him to install the toilet seat cover Mike bought for me for Christmas 2018. I hadn't installed it because he bought an oak seat cover to put on a white toilet. I had wanted a white wooden seat, but I hadn't made that clear. I never got around to returning it. After Mike's death, I wouldn't throw it away because it's part of an arrangement with a free-standing towel rack.
Some of you may remember why I have been reluctant to wash the floor and move the towel rack and the box with the toilet seat cover. Mike had moved the free standing towel rack – after his death. It happened one morning after his death that I woke up from a nightmare in which he sat down with me and told me he was leaving me because he had fallen in love with another woman.
When I got up and went into the bathroom, the towel rack was moved into a position over the box containing a toilet seat cover and the bathmat. I hadn't touched it. No one in the house had walked through my bedroom to get to it to move it. Elsa wouldn't have been capable of moving it. Ergo: the only logical conclusion is Mike was the culprit. He was impatiently, desperately, assuring me that he did not leave to be with another woman.
While I might have a nightmare like that, I even had some of them over the years together, but there is nowhere my waking mind I would think something like that. There is no way this man would have left me for another woman. That doesn't mean he might not have left me if he was unhappy, just not for another woman. His moral sensibilities would never have allowed that.
B. took the oak toilet seat cover out of the box. Naturally, it's the wrong shape for the toilet. I'm still not going to return it. It was one of the last gifts he gave me. I don't care if it isn't what I wanted or if it's altogether wrong. I understand men are often poor gifters. However, Mike was the most thoughtful person I have ever known. He would make adaptations for my needs and sometimes come home with something I needed from the grocery store even before telling him about it. Those were the best gifts.
He gave up on trying to buy me clothes. He handed that job over to his first wife, Jean. The first year he did that, he had her buy bras for me. Jean went to our favorite second-hand stores in the Princeton/Trenton area and picked out clothes for me in the following years. Now, that worked.
The first time I flushed the toilet with the replacement parts, I noticed there wasn't enough water released to execute an effective flush. I removed the top of the tank to check the amount of water. It was full. I tried to flush again—same result. Then I tried holding the handle down. Voila! I thought it was a defective apparatus, but I think it is a two flush system with one handle. My choice is to either press the handle and release it or hold the handle down. How delightful!
While I was eating dinner, Yvette arrived, asking if I would be ready for a massage after dinner. She set up the massage table in the guest room on the new rug. She found three of the rub protectors and went into the library to find a piece of cardboard to use for the fourth foot.
After she left, I retired to the library to watch some more of Wycliff, a pretty good English murder mystery. I finally opened a piece of mail from Kaiser addressed to Mike. What??!!! It was a statement for expenses for November 1 through November 30. Excuse me. I made plans to call Kaiser in the morning. There were no costs at my end. I just didn't want a false insurance claim made on Mike's behalf. I know stuff like that happens.
I only got to bed shortly before 11 pm. I no longer need thirteen to fourteen hours of sleep a day. If I take a long, satisfying nap, then I'm not tired at bedtime. I lay in bed and read for a while. Then I saw what looked like a flashlight beam in my backyard. That was scary. I got up and locked the sliding screen door. It seems like the lock on the shower door, which goes to the backyard, isn't working anymore. I put both free-standing shower racks in the shower to create obstacles.
When I got back in bed, it occurred to me that Elsa had never barked. She's a crazy lady when someone unfamiliar comes to the front door. She doesn't bark for Yvette, B., Elijah, or Sariah. I wasn't sure why she didn't bark if someone in the backyard. Could it be that she will never bark about someone back there?
I fell asleep feeling reasonably secure. The only concern was that if I have to lock those two back doors, no one can get to me if I need help. I don't have a key to this house. The two front doors are locked screen doors. That's all folks!
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