Cannonball! Otherwise entitled: I Tend to Act First and Think Second

I don’t know how to dabble.  When I decide to do something I tend to jump in with both feet and get in way over my head before I even know what happened.  It’s kind of strange, because I don’t think I’m a particularly spontaneous person, but once I make up my mind to do something I go at it full speed ahead.  

Several years ago I decided to join a chorus of Sweet Adelines.  This is a group of women who sing barbershop quartet style music.  I found a group, showed up for rehearsal, and tried out.  Within weeks I was a section leader and had formed a quartet with three other women.  It took over my life.  I was singing several nights a week, had signed up for voice lessons, costumes, competitions and shows.  

When I decided to go back to school to finish my degree I went from mulling it over to applying for the respiratory therapy program in 5.3 seconds.  When I walked into the counselors office to discuss my options I’d never even heard of respiratory therapy. No lie. I had my own stethoscope and pulse oximeter before the program even started.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that once I went shooting with my dad I decided to get my own gun.  Sure, I shopped around and asked a few questions.  Then I bought myself a little .38 special revolver.  Next thing I know I’ve signed up to get a concealed firearms permit.  I took the class, had my fingerprints taken, and sent off the forms for my permit.  I bought myself a holster, and as soon as my permit comes in the mail I’ll be a pistol packin’ mama.  This weekend I’m going to my first meeting of the “Sassy shooters” women shooters club.

I don’t know why I go from idea to action so quickly.  It’s like when you want to jump off a high dive but you’re afraid you’ll lose your nerve so you just run to the end of the diving board and throw yourself off.  I seem to do it with big decisions rather than small ones.  For example, if you were to call me up on the phone right now and ask if I wanted to go to see a movie tonight I would probably bow out because I just have  a hard time being that spontaneous.  But today I went and looked at carpet, chose  the one I want, and arranged to have the room measured.  And the cat hasn’t died yet.  

The funny thing is that I very rarely regret these rash decisions.  It’s true that my attention span seems to be about three years, but that doesn’t bother me.  There are so many exciting things to learn about and try that something else will come along when the new wears off of my interest.  By throwing myself into something I tend to learn a great deal about it in a short time.  

So maybe I do know how to dabble.  I just dabble in a big way.

A One, a Two, a One Two Three And

Who came up with the idiotic idea of quantifying pain on a scale of 0 to 10?  Does this work for anyone?  I’m just asking, because it isn’t working for me.

Late last year I wrenched my shoulder.  I was trying to hang a heavy duffle bag on a hook over my head.  I kept missing (no surprise there) but kept trying.  I finally caught the handles on the hook, but my shoulder protested loudly.  I shook it off in “big girl” fashion, and figured it would get better.  Well, it has gotten worse.  Now every time I wash my hair, pull a shirt over my head, or roll over in bed my shoulder cries out in pain.  You’ll notice it cries out.  It doesn’t do a math problem.

Last month I finally gave in and went to the doctor.  He sent me to physical therapy.  My physical therapist, Jeremy, and I are developing a close relationship.  He’s a nice guy.  I know how he met his wife (high school), where he went on his mission (Ireland), where he went to PT school (Nebraska), and his children’s names (Olivia and Coi).  He has magic hands when he maneuvers my shoulder just right.  But at every session he wants me to tell him what number I would assign to my pain.  I explained to him that my pain isn’t mathematically inclined.  It’s has more of a bend for music.  

All my pains make sounds.  Headaches, stomach aches, bruises, cuts and abrasions all have different pitches and rhythms.  Does this make sense to anyone else?  If you want to know what my shoulder pain is like, listen to “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.  It kind of thumps along and then “wawawawa” a high pitched pain zings in.  I’m not making this up.  I discovered this one morning while taking a shower.  My iphone was on the back of the toilet, as my faithful reader will know, and as this song came on, I realized it was matching the pain involved in raising my arms to wash my hair!  

So I explained this to Jeremy and he even listened to the song with me.  He really is a very patient man.  But he still wanted  a number, so I told him 7.  He wrote it down. 

I’m not opposed to using the number system to quantify things.  I use it with my husband all the time.  Say we can’t decide on which movie to watch.  I will tell him I’m a 3 on (insert action flick) and a 8 on (insert chick flick), but if he is feeling like a 10 on (insert that action flick), I’ll watch it with him.  This works for us and we watch a lot of chick flicks together.  

But it doesn’t work with my pain.  Every day I faithfully do my exercises and while I’m doing them I try to determine what number Jeremy wants me to tell him.  I’m sure he wants to feel successful, so I imagine he wants me to tell him a lower number.  But the truth is, I’m still feeling “Are you happy, Are you satisfied  How long can you stand the heat Out of the doorway the bullets rip To the sound of the beat” of my pain.