January 7 on January 7th

I’m still hangin’ with Sly and the Family Stone these days, and I do have a few things I want to write about that are connected to the music, but not necessarily what I am working out to. However, they’re scribbled on bits of paper, half written, or have lost my interest and I need to give my motivation a good kick in the butt. So today, as I have gotten used to now posting on Wednesdays and Sundays and this is after all Wednesday, I will write about what I did today because it wasn’t a normal day. Nothing earth-shattering, except maybe to me, and then that is certainly an overstatement.

Now that I am two years and two months cancer-free and that ever present lump in my thyroid is nevermore, I am concentrating on that odd thing with my feet. Ruled out circulation a while back, and today went for an EMG – electromyography. I know, I never heard of it either but the test consists of a very nice technician taping things to my feet and legs and giving me the most annoying electric shocks in various places, then the doctor coming in to utilize the thin needle I kept hearing about to stab me repeatedly along my left calf and low into the ankle and telling me to lean into the weapon as hard as I could during each jab. Two more, she’d say, then last one. I’m no dummy. I knew she meant until she got to the right leg, but no. She didn’t have to. The reason she explained didn’t matter to me as she could have said it was because she didn’t like my perfume and I would have accepted it. Good news/bad news is that it looks like I have healthy muscles and nerve cells. So the doctor sent me across the street for blood tests.

It was just before noon when I got there with only one person ahead of me. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t had any water since last night so I grabbed a cup and downed it as my name was called. “I have difficult veins,” I explained to the phlebotomist. “You think that scares me,” she wheezed (and she did have an awfully pronounced wheeze). “No, not you.” Turns out the doctor ordered nine tests and after the phlebotomist finally got the popular vein to start spurting, I ran out of blood at seven. I watched as the waiting room filled up with the lunch crowd who also needed the phlebotomist, who all looked at me with vexation and ire. But she had that never say die attitude and found two more vials in me upon searching throughout my right arm. I forget about my uncooperative veins until times like these, after the ordeal when I say that I must remind myself to hydrate well the night before and the morning of any doctor’s appointment at all no matter what it’s for. And then of course I forget, or only remember for those times it turns out not to be relevant. I won’t bore you with what happened next as I worked my way back downtown with both arms wrapped in shocking pink gauze at the elbow, collecting Max food (he’s cheap but particular, or vice versa) and stopping in at the Landmark Diner on Grand Street because, while I would never use a utensil that even touched the table slightly, they have good coffee and pleasant employees. Foods not bad, but I’ve only had their omelets.

My last stop for the day was for a facial. I had a Groupon (don’t tell Agnes at GemVie) closer to home and I wanted to treat myself as I had the day off anyway. And I was a really good girl. Again, I won’t bore you with the details but it was a fine facial. After the treatment, for some reason I don’t remember, I told the aesthetician the street where I live. “I live there,” she said, then mentioned the address of her building. “I live in that building,” I said. “I’m on the 35^th floor,” she said. “I’m on the 35^th floor,” was my response, and I wasn’t joking around. I half expected her to say she lived at the same apartment number as I, but of course no, though she is right down the hall. How weird is that? It is a small world sometimes. And this is New York.

I came home amused and at 5pm found there was absolutely nothing on the television I wanted to watch so I turned on the radio. I preheated the oven and prepared three yams for cooking, as yams are my new must haves, found myself dancing around to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” and then put on Sly until dinner was ready.

And that’s what I did today. By the way, those are not my legs in the picture.