It's official. I'm tired of coughing. Or Marge is. As is probably anyone who has been within 50 yards of me since, say, two weeks ago? I'm long since past contagious, but I don't sound it. Marge sounds like hell.
I almost felt bad for the guy in the seat next to me on the flight home from Seattle. Almost. Until he unearthed a massive onion-filled tuna salad sandwich from a greasy paper bag and proceeded to eat it. And then silently but stinkily belch for the next two hours. He also felt he needed to share his newspaper at full width rather than doing a polite airplane origami. I complimented him on his sharing skills (after all, I have a four-year-old), but asked him to figure out the concept of personal space before his paper ended up in little wads seven rows up and three rows back. Actually, my phrasing was much nicer.
Gosh, I really miss those monthly flights to JFK. Wait, no I don't. Someone should do a study on how many people eat burritos the night before a nonstop cross-country flight. Honestly. The burrito consumption per capita must be off the charts.
I'm stalling. What's really on my brain? LD started radiation treatments today. Ever the engineer, he is impressed with the efficiency of their process. Coming from him, this is a high compliment. Very. One down, 39 treatments to go. Daily, with weekends off for good behavior. As the crow flies, it's not a long way, but it's mountain roads and a steep grade every day after day after day. Probably not so odd for those of us who have our daily commutes, but for someone who relishes the fact that he lives in a tiny town with wooden sidewalks and no stoplights?
Meanwhile I'm whimpering about my cough and the fact that my Achilles tendon won't behave. What six weeks ago appeared to the infamous surfing podiatrist to be an inflamed bursa is more likely tendinitis of the Achilles, which often precedes a rupture if not resolved. Nothing I want to experience. I've had enough drama for one foot. Hence, back into treatment to avoid further fun and games. And more time off the softball field. Yes, I know I'm horrid at it, but I miss being horrid at it.