So recovery continues. I’m sore and tired, and I went back to work way too soon and pushed things way too hard. Because, dammit, no one can do my job like I can.
Sure, my abdomen is very tender and I feel unaccountably bitchy. (Okay, it’s accountable, but I’m not going there at the moment.) But this whole “ordeal” hasn’t been nearly as difficult as, say sixth grade.
In sixth grade, my family moved across town and I went to a new school. Which was a nasty-ass, filthy, overcrowded heckhole. So many kids smashed in there that we were on year-round schedule and double-session. Demographically, we had the non-English-speaking migrant workers’ kids and the super-rich from Summit Drive rubbing shoulders (avoiding shoulders, actually), with a thin stripe of middle-class kids wedged in between.
And you know how at every school there’s that one kid that everyone hates? The one who’s so defenseless and annoying that even the teachers openly mock them? And their every trip to the bathroom is fraught with peril as the tough kids lie in wait for a retribution-free thrashing?
That would be me. Why? (And I love you for asking.) Read on.