Moral of the story: don’t alter your route

 (Side note: apology to the three zillion people to whom I owe emails.  For some reason I can write journals and edit TSV, but if you add another human to the interaction, or ask me to make choices that aren’t about what sentence should go next, I am a fail. Soon.)

This is today.

It was already a full gig, with chiro at 11, a massage (nobody mauling my muscles, just to relax), and then talk therapy.  I’d planned my yesterday so I could take the morning to write, and I had big visions of putting the revised end of TSV on Fiction Press so I could say, "Completed!" and feel self-satisfied.  I was really looking forward to it.  Especially I liked the idea of going into the massage and talk therapy with that off my plate.  And as soon as I had Anna safely deposited at school, that was what I intended to do.

My first omen that plans would gang aft a’gley was the washer fuckery.  It wasn’t draining.  I’d tried to pull out the blankets, and they were sopping, so I drain/spinned them again, and what do you know.  Still sopping.  So I dumped them in a bucket, dragged them across the deck (thereby making them dirty again), and threw them over the rail to drip out.  Then I took Anna to school.  I went my usual way, dropped her off, and headed home.  And I altered my route.

The joke about Iowa is that we have two seasons: winter, and road construction, and it’s true, largely because of our winters.  It gets so cold, and we use so much salt that our roads are always shit come spring, so the second it’s warm construction crews spend the rest of the year until the first snow repairing everything they can.  Right now the road home from Anna’s school is full of construction, and so instead of following the usual part of my path, I meandered back towards the main drag, trying to skip the bad stoplights and generally get home as quickly as possible.  I was still in my pajamas, and thankfully had thrown on a bra, but I had no purse, and no coat.  I was driving down a side street I think I’ve been down once before in a car, and I watched a man pull into a driveway as I approached a stop sign.  Too late I saw he was not parking, but turning around, and that he didn’t see me.  I honked.  I swerved.  And he hit me smack in the right front fender.

It’s such a bitch how three seconds like that can fuck up so much.  I lost forty-five minutes to waiting for and dealing with the police regarding the accident.  I lost another half hour talking to our car insurance.  No writing happened at all, and frankly I was lucky to get a shower.  But it didn’t end there.  I mention the accident at the chiro, which turned into a flurry of re-examination, where, despite my saying I was fine, he showed me that, actually, my neck was a bit fucked, and now I’m back to twice a week again.  The good news is that it’s on the insurance company’s dime.  But it took another half hour and made me nearly late for the massage.

The massage was great.  It wasn’t therapeutic body work where I left more sore than I came.  In fact, I fell asleep on the table several times, and I’ve been floating through my day since.  

I came home between massage and talk therapy to four messages on the machine, two of them insurance.  I ignored them all and went to talk therapy.

I’m not going to get into therapy in this post, but it’s worth admitting that today was pretty raw, and unexpectedly so.  I didn’t think I was keyed up, but I was, and I ended up telling two very sad stories, both which made me feel very exposed and uncomfortable, though of course Maura was great about it.  She always thanks me for sharing things with her, which I still don’t know how to process.  She was feeling honored, and I was just feeling blerg.  But this meant that when I came home from therapy and now HAD to return the phone calls, I would have cried at a Charmin commercial.  Thankfully the Progressive guy was very awesome, and did things like insist I get a rental car, since my plan covers it, and so tomorrow I’m going to Enterprise to get "a very nice car."  In the meantime, I drove the truck all day (not my idea of fun), picked up Anna, and Dan, took the Mazda out to the body shop (miss it already) and then came home.  I have one more insurance guy to talk to.  Medical calls tomorrow.  Oh, and we have to have this car back by the time we go to California in early June.


So, this was my day, all because I took a different route.  Noted, universe.

I actually kind of like it, though, in a backwards way.  I’ve been trying to put my finger on the end of TSV, because as I read up to it I felt it needed a gentle tweak, and I’ve been struggling with it for days.  I stayed up until 2AM last night (such bliss!  Haven’t done that with writing in forever, and to do it in Etsey!!!!), but it’s still not just quite on.  The accident seemed to jar more than the fender and my neck, though, and the vulnerability of therapy may finally give the last scene what it needs.  And yes, I will post links when it’s all done, especially for MY BIGGEST FAN and others who may fear I’ve wrecked it.  There’s a womb of life in it now, and it’s way cool.  Otherwise more the same than different.  But I feel very tired now, and very out of sorts, and disinterested in people.  But I want to dig into that scene, to stand with Charles and Madeline on the rail of the ship and hit the high note a little stronger.  And then I want so badly to POST IT! And go put "completed" next to it.  And see what the guy in Norway and the Australian think of it.

Off to make dinner, which was going to be something different but due to the altered route is now Italian casserole.  With a shitload of cheese and mushrooms.  And a beer.  I think I"m going to have a beer.

2 Comments on “Moral of the story: don’t alter your route

  1. Oh sweetie! Ouch! And HUGS!! Glad you had chiro and massage after, not before. Mercury is still in retrograde.
    You can’t have wrecked the story, silly.

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