I staggered into OT this morning and asked my guy to do something involving tranquilizer darts and knocking me out for a week. Unfortunately, he doesn't have that as a treatment option .
Over the hand massage, we were discussing why I was smashed flat, and it came out that I sorta kinda on Friday drove for five hours almost straight. Which is bad on the face of it, then add in that I don't take any painkillers when driving for obvious reasons, and, well, by the time I got home I was a mess that still hasn't unmessed.
My OT started discussing moderation. How I can still do pretty much anything I want, but the days of four-hour knitting sessions - or five hour drives - are over. It hit me, because, see, FIFTEEN YEARS AGO I got these same talks from Colonel H, the head of OT where I had my hand put back together.
Apparently, I have learned nothing in a decade and a half.
I'd been doing pretty good - I only spin for an hour at a time, only knit for about half an hour without a break. But then I start feeling better and do something stupid, like that drive on Friday.
I think it's time to turn over a new rock, and start acting like a grownup.
I hate that.
To make myself feel better after this realization, I stopped off at Natural Stit
IF THIS GNAT DOES NOT DIE I WILL BURN THE MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE DOWN.
To make myself feel better, I stopped at Natural Stitches and bought two more Crazy Zauberballs. Woohoo! So, that's something. Not much, but, fuck, it was... moderate.
Hell, I hate adulthood.
ETA: I got the motherfucking gnat and so do not have to burn down the motherfucking house.