The herniated disc continues to offer hidden blessings: I spent a lot of time prepping for the MTEL exam again today. Not that the test seems particularly hard, but I still have a nerdy teenager's revulsion at getting a single answer wrong. So I'm doing exercises in my head: name as many conjunctions as you can; define abjure; list rules of capitalization relating to geography. Good, clean fun.
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Go through a murky, impressionistic part of The Hamlet and am back into what I like most: Balzacian realism, or so the critics call it. The murk made me want to give up, once again, on the old mudmaster, but I'm glad I decided to trudge on and find the jewels that lay beyond: Protestant love confusion, heat, and shady dealings in Frenchman's Bend.
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Now, I'm off to the store, gingerly. Yes, I know. I'm not supposed to be running around. But I'm under twin imperatives that go beyond hunger. I have to rest up, but I can't let the old carcass just rot either. And I quick trip to the produce section is about as mild an exercise as I might conceive. It's easier than taking a shower, surprisingly, physically, although more taxing in terms of feeling plain helpless. It's tough to go out into the world knowing I could be beaten up by your average eight year old. Damn back.
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