Getting old. I can’t remember where I heard it, but I’ve been told that it “sucks.” Oh, that’s right, it was everyone old I ever knew. Now, having Rheumatoid Arthritis since the age of nine, my body began to wear out the day I was diagnosed, and I had just assumed that my disease was an early form of that wonder of nature called aging. Unfortunately, it’s looking like that’s not the case as my disease and time itself are now locked in a race to the death – to my death, as they fight one another in a bloody conflict for the right to make my body even more useless than it already is. Their war rages on, but no matter who wins, I lose.
We’ve all heard the phrase “everyone’s the hero of their own story,” but do you ever stop and consider what that really means? I have been thinking about it a lot lately, and what it really means to someone chronically ill. Spoiler alert: it’s not all beautiful maidens and slain dragons.
Having a chronic illness shakes your faith in yourself on an hourly basis. Want to change a light bulb? Your shoulders don’t have enough range of motion. Need to change a tire? Don’t have the strength to turn the bolts. Want to change your socks? Can’t reach past my toes. You get the idea – chronic illness makes your painfully aware of all the things you can’t do on a very regular basis, and that’s when you are well. Unfortunately, I was sick recently, more ill than I’d been in a long time.
Yesterday, I added a new chapter to that soulful saga of soles that has become an extreme exercise in extremity anxiety. As usual, the outcome was a stalemate, and a tie always goes to the running-shoe. Facing the archenemy of arch-support is exhausting, and even when I win, finding cleats that fits my feets is always a bittersweet feat. My piggy-curator is ready for a pygmy-castrator to end the war of me vs. shoes once and for all.
I can’t believe I’m damn forty years old. What the hell happened to all those years? I don’t feel forty, but then again, what the hell is 40 supposed to feel like? I imagine it’s akin to the feeling you get when going out for Carvel ice cream and then finding out the only thing that’s open is the local health store with the frozen soy dessert. It’s better than having can’t believe I’m damn forty years old. What the hell happened to all those years? I don’t feel forty, but then again, what the hell is 40 supposed to feel like? I imagine it’s akin to the feeling you get when going out for Carvel ice cream and then finding out the only thing that’s open is the local health store with the frozen soy dessert. It’s better than having nothing at all, but not by much – the enthusiastic “meh” of ages. nothing at all, but not by much – the enthusiastic “meh” of ages.
Another post was missed, and that was my latest on The Huffington Post. This one is a piece on the exciting new virtual technologies that are in their infancy that allow disabled people such as myself to experience things we would normally never be able to. Check it out.
Well, being almost Thanksgiving, I decided to do the cliché thing, and write about things I’m thankful for. At first. Then, I realized that, instead, I could d something drastically different from what other blogs written abut chronic illness do. Right here, folks, for one of the first times ever, I’m going to tell you about some of the good things that having rheumatoid arthritis has done for me. Gasp!
The Miranda rights. You’ve all heard them a thousand times on television and in movies, and this year they have reached their golden anniversary. Fifty years of law enforcement providing a simple set of warnings and instructions when arresting someone, and the jury is still out on whether or not the system is a success or a failure. Before we get in to all that, though, you have the right to remain informed, and learn about the circumstances that gave birth to these ubiquitous rights.
Unless you have been sequestered for an O.J. level criminal trial for the last few years, you have probably heard that people in our country are fed-up with Washington D.C., and, ultimately, the politicians we put there. While there are a multitude of individual reasons why this has happened, there is one, overarching fault that seems to be at the heart of the seething distaste for all the bureaucratic chicanery that seems to be synonymous with government these days. Compromise has become taboo, and negotiating and the art of making is now just as derided as a pair of anti-vaxxer parent who use maple syrup as a cure for meningitis. Mmmmm. More vaccine please, mom.
Hey all! It’s been a long time since we had a post, and I’m sorry for that. There has been some things bubbling behind the scenes and life also made itself known, as it so often does. We are back, now, though, and ready to share the new year with you in writing, audio, and more! To cap off this year, though, enjoy this part satire, part cautionary tale, story about the Yale students and their growing crusade to get rid of the first amendment. Who would have ever though that college campuses would be the place free speech died?
A new HuffPo article is up. The War On Poverty. The War On Hunger. The War On Discrimination. The War On Racism. We absolutely love to declare war on things here in the U.S. Maybe it’s because “The non-violent police action against racism,” just doesn’t have the same ring to it, or maybe it’s because Americans love to do everything to extremes. You only need look to sports to confirm this. We took rugby, a sport where the players tape their ears down because of the very real chance of those ears being ripped off, decided it was too docile, and created the NFL.