Come in second

Speaking of running....

By the time high school rolled around the teachers saw me run the mile in gym and recruited me for the cross-country team.

see the ribbon in my hair? Yeah, I was still a wild mustang, but people could get close now and brush my scraggly mane.

I was still running just to run.

highest finishing was 7th. usually, I placed in the teens. I was a good solid team member.

My senior year the next to the last race the coach came to me and said "I need you to come in second"

I nodded and buried my face in my letterman's jacket and tried to disappear.

That afternoon I came in second.

As I crossed the finish line, I saw a WHAT-THE-HELL look on coach's face.

Later I learned he meant second for the team.... not the whole race. bwhahahahaha.

Yup all they had to do for years was tell me where to be and I'd be there.

I was just running because it was fun.

...and I would sell my soul for one last run....sigh.

SWOOSH!!!

 In seventh grade I was invisible. Those who saw me were few. Those who knew me, were none.

I was not friendly. I was an island unto my self. I found a t-shirt at goodwill that read. 

Warning: I'm naked under my cloths

and that somehow seemed appropriate for me. I wore it a lot. 

Most people left me alone. 

Those who didn't wish they did.

We had free gym that particular day. Most of the class sat on the benches talking, a few of us were shooting hoops.

The teacher Mrs. Loomis called to those of out on the court with her whistle and motioned us to come in.

The other girls obediently followed and headed in. 

I paused and finally had the court to my self. I had been standing center court dribbling away from everyone else.

We locked eyes and she again motioned to come in.

I turned and sent the basketball flying towards the basket. Her eyes followed it's silent arch through the air.... through the hoop, nothing but net.

 swoosh

Her gaze returned to me. With a why-the-hell-aren't-you-on-my-basketball-team look on her face.

I bobbed my head like the wild mustang I was, my bangs flopping over my eyes as I galloped past her into the locker room.

If she ever tried to talk to me I was simply too shy, too damaged to respond.

I saw that same look again after the timed cross country run we did.

As I said I was a mustang. A free range shaggy haired untamable beast. 

She said go and off I went leaving everyone in my dust. I didn't run for time or place. I ran just to run.

And I ran fast as  f%^& boi. LOL.

I crossed the finish line and she wasn't there with her stopwatch.  As I cooled down and restlessly moved about wondering what to do. The anxiety started chewing on me.

Had I misunderstood where the finish line was? Was I in last place? Was I going to get into trouble?AAuugghh!!!  should I do another lap of the course? 

About that time Mrs. Loomis came out the door with her grade book under her arm and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, with the stopwatch dangling from her wrist.

She stopped dead and that basketball look came over her shocked face. "What are you doing here? HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE!?"

She set her coffee and grade book down and fumble to get the stopwatch and see the time.

She gave me a why-the-hell-aren't-you-on-my-track-team look...but by them others were coming across the finish line, and I had once again turned invisible and vanished into the crowd. 

Years and years later like TWENTY THREE or more later as I was working I saw her come in and she walked up to the desk and said "Hello Paja. How are you doing?"

Still shy, still a lunatic, still an untamed mustang. I nodded my head and replied "I'm good."

And like the basketball those years ago I turned and was gone with a swwooosh.

Why my humor has gotten me in trouble so much.

 My sense of humor is ......odd.

I've gotten my self in so much trouble over the years because of it.

heh.

And that is just what I can confess too bawaaahahahahaha.

One such tale I can retell happened in the front yard the summer of  1975.  I was 9 and a free range lunatic. 

Remember these?

Our mother forbade us from eating them due to hearing rumors that they pulled out children's teeth.

Urban legend, tall tale, the truth? I have never known.

My older brother would get them from B-Street market and then consume them in front of us younger kids. He wouldn't share. He, after all was 11. The 11 was so new the smoke from his candles was still wafting in the air.

Occasionally he would bribe us with licks so we wouldn't nark on him to Mama.

It wasn't long before I hatched a plan that had me giggling every time I thought about it. My idea just taunted my funny bone to no end. 

It was so feindishly simple.

I raided the jar of baby teeth and got three molars out of it. 

Waited until I got my hands on his astro pop and while his attention drifted...applied all three in a nice little pattern and stuck the pop back in my mouth.

When I was ready and got his attention. I groaned/ouched and put my hand to my mouth and pulled out the astro pop and stared in surprised pain/horror at it.

It didn't go as planned.

Instead of laughing, he turned the most ghastly shade of white and his jaw dropped. He instantly glanced to the house to made sure Mama wasn't watching and then very concernedly put his arm around me to comfort me. I'm sure he was frantically trying to come up with a plausible story to get him out of this pickle.

"Nah I'm just kiddin' see?" I opened my mouth and pulled back my cheek. Then laughed.

He didn't find it all funny and I never got licks of his astro pops again.

That taught me that if I get an idea that is laughing-my-butt-off-funny I need to run it by someone older/more mature. To keep my self out of trouble/jail.

Pity Party 2026

 (I'm alright just a pity party)

DUDE.

I am so fucking done with my body. In the horse world there's a term called road hard and put away wet. And that's exactly what I have done to myself.

In order to function the last couple years I've used prednisone.
To the point where I've killed my adrenal glands LOL, and I'll never get off of it.

My thyroid's been radiated and I have to take a replacement forever which is never fully compensated for the natural hormone.
And because of my hyperthyroidism, my cholesterol runs high like in the 500 highs. It also causes my blood sugars to run high.

Fully diagnosed with diabetes now. Metformin and weak muscles from polymyositis DO NOT MIX.
So I'll be coming off of that.

I find it funny as heck that my early life I spent trying to stop my brain from killing me. LoL. And now the rest of me is trying to kill me too.

This body and I have been at war forever. And now I have even more ways I can kill myself. Like slowly if I take myself off my thyroid medicine. Or fast if I stop taking my prednisone.

When I went to go take my Cimzia shot that treats the rheumatoid arthritis. I told them that I feel like I was dying.
And as usual they ran labs they're all fine.... Because my body effing hates me. My CBG was high, and the usual flags for inflammation.

So I put myself back on the metformin I'm supposed to be on but I don't take because it makes my muscles weaker, and let me tell you this incredibly hard to get this old cranky body to do anything anymore... So I really, really didn't want to do that.
Not to mention metformin makes me, I don't know... dumb? Like I feel it sucks away 50 IQ points.

I'm just ready to be done. Like a wrap up everything and just go to bed and pull the covers over my head.
I really don't have anything more to add to this planet. I have lived an incredibly interesting life for someone as dull and boring as I am. My children are grown. I stay for my incredibly loving and kind husband. And for my children.

But sometimes that's just not enough. The living doesn't outweigh the pain.

I'm a broken racehorse three quarters away around the track with my leg shattered. Standing there heaving trying to catch my breath as the bones crunch and splinter turning my leg into mush. Blood dripping from my nostril mixing with the sweat and foam.

I know my work career is literally one...one ...one twist away from putting my back out completely.

I can't retire until I'm 62.

That's one year and 4 months.

That's a really really long time, to hold your breath.

To balance on one foot...

to run away from the monsters on pulverized muscles that can't even walk up the stairs.