Step by step

I don't walk up and down stairs as a general rule -- not really cut out for it balance-wise.

Now, though, I have a new reason to dislike stairs: It is cold when you climb up stairs out of 90 degree water.

At aqua-therapy today, I climbed one step, then climbed down. It felt pretty good, except the cold thing. I used my arms too much to get up and down, but it was all right. I did take a mouthful of water when i was trying to push up my glasses. I leaned my face to the right and the water was right there.

I also did a little work with dumbbells. It was almost like I was with my little nephew. (Get it? Hee!)

Careful what you wish for

As we were out walking, I was asking Claren what I should right about. My ride got me to work early today, and I didn't want to write about that even though it is frustrating that I cannot tell until I roll into work whether I will be on time, half an hour early or an hour late.

I do have some thoughts I am working on, but I am not quite ready to unleash them on the world, maybe my little sister, but not the world.

Then as we were crossing the street, the topic reared up in front of me and almost killed me.

Actually, it was on my right side.

I crossed the first two lanes of my street with no problem and started across the other two lanes. They were clear ... but out of nowhere, a car started shooting toward me.

I didn't really have many options at this point. It's not like I could speed up or turn around. I guess I could have waved my arms at the car but that would have meant stopping my chair. I decided to just fix the driver with my steely gaze. And keep moving to get the hell off the street.

It worked. The car began slowing about 10 or 15 yards before me and as it slowly passed me, the driver held out his hand, as if to say: "My bad."

Once I was out of the line of fire, I raised my hand, too, meaning: "What the hell?"

I was not particularly mollified by his hand gesture, but I am not sure what the correct sign is to express: "Sorry I almost killed you."

Putting a hurting on folklore

Doorways are very liminal. You know, a threshold between worlds and dimensions and such, a place full of the uncertain.

I learned this in my Scandinavian folklore class at college years ago. As I recall, newly married women and dead people did not pass through doorways in some cultures. The dead people got passed out a window. I forget about the brides.

The liminality of doorways was hammered home a few years ago when Phoebe, the third-cutest Halliwell sister, was transferred to another dimension when she passed through a doorway on Charmed.

Two quick asides: I just searched Television Without Pity to find the episode of Charmed, and apparently doorways were used like every other episode to effect change. And for all you curious minds, it goes Piper, Prue, Phoebe and Paige.

It seems, then, that doorways can be dangerous places. I know about that. I doubt there is any doorway I use regularly without a black smudge at wheelchair arm level and a scrape at footrest level.

With the doorway danger in mind, I decided to take decisive action, to show my bedroom doorway who's boss, to shock and awe that sucker.

Actually, I was hungry and still half-asleep after my nap tonight when I bashed into the doorway and ripped part of the frame several inches out of the doorway itself.

I'm not ready to go to another dimension or be attacked by dimension-travelers or whatever

A toilet? In a bathroom?

Here is a little tip for all you aquatic therapy businesses: Put a toilet in the changing room.

I changed out of my suit after my session so I could have dinner at Mom and Dad's, mostly of course to see my niece and nephew. They have a mean "Old Dan Tucker" dance. Normally I just wear the wet suit home and change there.

I almost had to use the shower stall as I got out of a warm water, dried off and pulled on dry clothes. A shower but no toilet.

I survived bladder intact, I hope anyway. It was a good session, too. I was pretty tired from all the exercise.

So tired

A friend of mine loaned me a DVD of a documentary about people who dress up as superheroes, and I wondered how this gal has time to watch DVDs. Another told me she was reading a book about the paradox of choice, and I was staggered. If I have the energy to read a comic book, I consider it a good day.

It must be the wheelchair and disability that leave me so bone-achingly tired after every day of work, before it, too.

I always dose on my ride into work, but today was something else. I opened my eyes as we were getting off the toll road, a few minutes from work. Next thing I knew we were pulling past the guard post at work.

And it seems all I can do is be tired. I can fight through it or nap; the result is the same.`