Several months ago, I somewhat impulsively bought tickets to the Orchestra Seattle/Seattle Chamber Singers performance of The Messiah. One of my volunteers is a singer with the Chamber, and swore that they were known for doing the best Messiah in Seattle. The tickets were relatively cheap, and at the time I thought, “Why not? It’ll be fun,” I thought. “And Mr. Typist loves classical music!”
The concert was last night, and I spent the week peppering Mr. Typist with little reminders in order to mentally prepare him for the trauma of having to be around other people. The day before, the orchestra had sent out an e-mail reminder for the event, which mentioned that it did not start at 7:30 like I initially thought, but instead at 6:00—there was pre-concert concert, then the actual concert, with two intermissions. That, coupled with the long drive, meant we were facing at least a five hour commitment. Still, we both stoically steeled our girders, each one thinking the other would be disappointed if we didn’t go. We had a gloomy, silent early dinner, during which Mr. Typist suddenly blurted out, “Why are we going to this concert again?” at which point I reminded him that I bought the tickets months ago, knowing that he loves classical music. Then I added, “We don’t have to go.” And he was all like, “No, no. We’ll go.” And then I was all like, “Really, we don’t have to”, to which he responded, “Well, do you want to go?” leading me to wanly admit that no, actually, I didn’t really want to go. He looked like he had gotten a stay of execution. I felt like a total philistine, but by that time it was pitch black outside and pouring down rain, I had been having a nice day decompressing from my first week on the new job by playing video games, and I wasn’t up to facing a crowd of people and three daunting hours of music that I don’t understand or have any particular love for. So there you have it--we blew off a culturally enrichening activity in favor of staying home in our sweatpants and watching TV. I regret nothing.
I still can’t face the query letter. I’ve now stooped to considering work-arounds, such as having a drone fly my novel through the window of an agent. I know I need to quit being such a ninny about this and just get it done, but I’ve already faced starting a new job last week, and I’ll be facing Christmas this week, which is grinding me down emotionally this year, and I just don’t have the mental discipline left to tackle it right now.
Mr. Typist and I took a longish walk today and partway through, both of my hips locked up so badly I thought I might not make it home. Despite my best efforts to stretch regularly, my hips have been really painful lately, to the point that I’ve wondered if I have arthritis. Mr. Typist offered to massage my gluts when we got home, and upon first contact, I howled with agony and begged him not to press so hard. He lightly touched my arm and said, “It was literally that much pressure.” Holy cow, folks. Somehow over the last month or so, the muscles in my hips have gotten into a knotted, inflamed, cement-glueish mess of fascia and corded tendons. I have no idea how it happened. It took half of the Seahawks game, a hot water bottle, and a lot of patience, but Mr. Typist finally managed to work out some of the knots. It’s still a mess, but a least it’s an improvement. The problem with the deep hip flexors is that it’s virtually impossible to stretch them, and once they lock up, you’re hosed. I had no idea how bad mine had gotten. Mr. Typist is hereby recruited into daily massage duty until they get sorted out.
I know some folks love Christmas, but for others, it can be a tough time. For those in the second category, have a bit of a laugh: