The Aerie
Now I know how the Tin Man felt. Every joint in my body is squeaking "Oil can!" as loudly as it is able. Fortunately my joints aren't too capable of squeaking, or I would be unable to think for the cries.
As it is, I am almost unable to think for the pain. I started back at the gym, and I am suffering the Just Punishment of the Damned for slacking off. I tried to go easy on myself, but despite that my back and arms are almost completely crippled by stiffness.
Oh, sure, I try staying hydrated, I stretch, I flex, I even went to the hot tub today and got loosened up enough to swim a few laps relatively painlessly.
But then I had to sit for about 90 minutes during the kids' piano recital, and like rain on the Tin Man, I rusted right back up again.
It was nice sitting there, however. The recital was horribly crowded, with many more grandparents showing up than was expected. When we arrived at the home of the volunteer host the living room was already packed, with hot locker-room air wafting past my head in the doorway. I turned around and looked back at the inviting three-season porch where I had just removed my shoes. In the corner, by the open window, a chair with rich cushions waited invitingly - and no man could resist THAT invitation.
Unfortunately, I think the hosts must have been Swedes. I don't say that because they had a "Valkommen" sign hanging in by the door. I say that because the cushion-covered chair was one of the most painful things I've ever sat in that was supposed to be sat in. The seat was canted slightly forward - a trick they use in the food court of the Mall of America to keep patrons from staying seated any longer than it takes to eat. Or maybe they do it so people will eat over the table instead of dropping food on the floor. Or both. All I know is I tried writing in the food court once, and quickly became aware of the hostile ergonomics shared between those chairs, and the one on this porch.
The back cushion was hard enough that I wondered for a time if someone had carved it out of pumice. The seat cusion felt like a dwarf-box-spring. And beneath the cushions, elaborately lathed dowels waited to indent the most delicate and least padded portions of one's anatomy.
Still, I sat, and it was pleasant enough, no doubt because I unfortunately bring my own padding to such things nowadays. The kids played - the rain fell. The kids played - the rain stopped. The kids played as the sun struggled to shine on the ivy-covered wall and purple crocuses of the neighbor's house. The kids played as the sun came out, and the other neighbor's roof started gushing steam so hard that I was afraid that the house had caught fire. And then, while the kids played, the rain poured down again.
The weather's been doing this for six weeks now, and most of us are ready to go postal.
When the recital ended a man with a crowbar had to come to get me out of the Swedish seat of death, while several others pulled on my arms. As I was levered up, I groaned "Oil can!" as loudly as I could, but nobody seemed to understand...
Posted by Albatross at June 4, 2005 9:00 PM