I’ve spent the past month nursing a muscle spasm in my back. Somewhere deep under my right shoulder blade is an unhappy little cluster of muscle fibres that are very very pissed off. They’re in such a tizz they’ve been pushing one of my ribs out of place, which is – to put it mildly – a bit uncomfortable. I’ve taken to keeping a walking stick next to the bed, so I can actually get up in the morning, and giving myself a gold star every day I do my stretches (20 and counting, thank you).
The back had eased up nicely towards the end of last week (Friday was Good in more ways than one) but Saturday morning it was grumbling, and by the time I left church on Easter Sunday, we were back at 8.5 on the old pain scale. Last night, the only option was to medicate with that bottle of Amaretto that’s been hanging around the kitchen for years. Maybe it’s time to see my GP for dose of happy pills?
Last week I ploughed through a decent share of the admin snowball I’ve been pushing around with me, and by tomorrow I hope to stumble blinking out into the bright light of a clear diary, and get stuck into the college tasks that form the backbone of next term. Being a mature student at 40 has a certain hysteria about it, especially when someone asked me the other day what I want to be when I grow up.
Since I edited a certain set of distractions out of my life, I’m finding more space to answer that. Instead of racing off to London at every opportunity, I’m starting to connect with the Sharon I want to be – reading, making, baking even (the ginger cake rocked). Add in the life drawing class, country walks, dance classes and the odd movie (loved Alice) and it’s all starting to go according to plan.