Dare You to Move

I don't know if this is an interesting thing to write about, or even if it's worth writing about, but it's been something I've been thinking about this weekend, and it's a bit on the self-congratulatory side, and I'm really not looking for any pats on the back. I've just been thinking about this particular thing a bit over the past few days, and I figured I ought to a) get it down in writing before I forgot about it, and b) throw you loyal readers a bone with a little meat on it.

I went to work.

It's not much, and it's utterly unremarkable in the Grand Scheme of things, or even the Small-To-Medium schemes of the block of this street.

But this week just passed was a really important one for me. For the first time since I had the stroke, I had as intense a work week as I had at any given point in the first four years of my life here in DC. About 55 hours, all told, between two wildly different jobs, managing very different things.

And I feel better right now, at the end of that week and just hours away from the start of another one, than I have in the past year. Part of it is spring's fault (favorite season and all), but this exhaustion I feel is absolutely genuine, and I relish every bit of it.

See, for the past ten months, I've been giving in to my hypochondriac side. The slightest eye twitch, the slightest head rush, the slightest anything, and I'd start worrying, "My God, is this another stroke?" I knew rationally that it wasn't. I distinctly remember what the stroke felt like, and nothing that I've experienced since last summer has felt even remotely like that. But when you're worried that you might be having a stroke (you being me, with my recent medical history), reason kind of flies out the window.

On a few choice occasions, especially since January, these little bouts of hypochondria have exploded into full-blown panic attacks. As in, have the digits 9-1-1 plugged into my phone and hovering my thumb menacingly over the Call button, waiting for just one little twinge. It was like High Noon at the O.K. Corral facing off against my brain.

But never another twinge. Never another trip to the ER. Never another stroke. So far [knocks on wooden desk].

But these twinges, real or not, have kept me from operating at 100%. As I've been slowly reintroducing myself to regular work, I've forced myself go slowly, because I thought I needed it. Six months ago, I didn't have a 30-hour week in me, let alone a 60-hour one.

This week, I had the chance to do one. So, no time being like the present indeed, I jumped in.

And so, here I am, at the other end of it, not only surviving but thriving.

I was made to live like this. I haven't had a week like this since Cherry Red closed, and I realize only now how much I miss it. (And don't get me wrong, Woolly isn't Cherry Red, but it's at least still theater, and I at least still like it.)

It's fucking awesome to be back. Thanks for letting me bend your ear eyeball.