On the pier this morning, I did my stuff. It was a great day, wonderful breeze, low humidity. About time. A young man, was fishing. He got one, a nice size. He called out to me to look. The fish was flopping on the pier. He put it in his bucket. I congratulated him. But I couldn’t get the image of the fish out of my mind. I felt something approaching heartbreak. Honest. I hate to see helpless creatures die. You’d think I’d be a vegan. My sister is a vegetarian, same reason. I won’t go that far. I just don’t want to be part of the process. Ed and I don’t fish, even though we inherited some poles from the former owner of our house. Our seawall and this bay in particular is considered one of the most desirable fishing spots in the area. I now realize that I don’t fish not only because I don’t want to clean them, but because I don’t think I can take watching the little critters go.

Yesterday was my monthly massage that I allow myself. I would go every week if I wanted to spend the money. Ed drives me because he is uncomfortable with me going there on my own in the car. Then he leaves and does things and picks me up an hour later. Barbara spent the whole hour on my neck and told me my atlas (a bone at the base of the skull) was misaligned and all the neck exercises I do because my range of motion has been bad for years, are not working well because of it. She gave me the name of a chiropractor. Only some chiropractic things are covered by Medicare, but it sounds like something I ought to do. More on this when it happens.

As for how the problem presented to begin with, I can only guess that years of toting a 20 lb. ballet bag, with tights and Leo’s tard, shoes, and legwarmers, and tape and a scissors, and resin, also a music binder, and stuff bought along the way, through the subways of Queens and Manhattan and sometimes Brooklyn, might have had something to do with it. One hung low. Shoulder, I am saying. Down here in the car culture, I don’t really need to carry anything. It all gets dumped in the back.

Here’s a vignette from those subway days, not too long before we moved down here, so I am no longer the sweet young thing of yore. I am running (chronically short of time) out of the exit at 57th Street and 7th Avenue on my way to Broadway Dance Center for class, as I whiz through the turnstile, a man catches up and stops me. He holds out my Metro card (senior citizen discount – hate to lose that) and looks at me quizzically – “Yours?” he says tentatively. I take the card and give him a big thank you. Then I smile and say, “Let this be our secret.” Inese, my ballet buddy of many years, tells me that Cathy, our self-styled ballerina of mystery with Vampira looks, now in her dotage, refuses to get a senior discount card. Would rather spend the money (half price and the price is $3.00 now) than have people notice she is using one. I always thought of her as a dimwit and, please, lose the false eyelashes that extend into the distance. I keep my Metro card renewed for the day when I get back to NYC for a visit. $10-15 a day to get around the city, forget it.

Ed returned to get me having been to a book store and having been to a gourmet Italian deli, Paisano’s, where he bought prepared mildly hot sausage and peppers and a jar of pricey anchovies. Later I had some of this dish for dinner. Although I had done 3 hours of exercise yesterday all told, I gained a pound. I can’t blame Ed, although I would not have bought anything so tempting, because it is my responsibility to resist these things. Ed ate all the anchovies. All. What him no never mind about weight. He’s been eating ice cream drumsticks, one or two a day for weeks and now he’s going to stop because he thinks it’s bothering his digestion. I have not had any, though they come eight to a box. Noble me.

I just got a call from my doctor’s office. I am due for a six-month blood work-up later this week. I didn’t realize I had one scheduled but I had planned to call him because I haven’t had much energy and want to sleep a lot. Take my walk, nap. Eat a light lunch, read, go biking, nap. Eat dinner with wine, nap. I tell you my life is going down the tubes nap-wise. I sure hope the tests show that my thyroid med needs to be increased. I need it to be something simple that can be dealt with.

xx, Teal