The amount of random silliness and weirdness that I have experienced today was absolutely what got me through one of those “bad days” with my hip and leg that the physician’s assistant told me I would experience from time to time. I was feeling pretty overly confident (not hard for me to do) about my not needing two crutches at all today, and so I left one in the car. I also stupidly stopped at Starbucks on my way into work without thinking ahead as to how I would get into the building while on crutches and holding a coffee. No joke, but for one brief second I contemplated somehow holding it with my teeth. Again, I use the word “stupid.”
Needless to say my body was not ready to knock it down to one crutch just yet. By the time 12th period rolled around, I had one kid run down to get me a bag of ice from the trainer and another go to my car to get the second crutch. I still had two hours of play rehearsal ahead of me and I knew I would never make it to my car from the Performing Arts Center since it is on the other side of the school. I had visions of the children in the cast creating a makeshift sled for me by tying their coats together and then dragging me to my car like a dog team whilst I moaned and cried out for the sweet relief of a Percocet. (Too much panache?)
The silliness then evolved into real life ridiculousness when the ice bag, which had already been leaking and was thus put into yet another bag, managed to leak again leaving a large water mark on my pants that quite accurately portrayed that I had pissed myself. While this isn’t the worst thing in the world, I would like you to imagine yourself standing in front of 25 teenagers looking as though you’ve just soiled yourself. Though I was mortified, we all had a great, long, hearty guffaw from it. Act III of Our Town will never be the same for me, and I mean that in a good way.
So then we get to the weirdness of the day. Skip ahead a few hours to my heated discussion with Mark on the phone about the whole “Lance Armstrong thing.” Another call beeped in. It was the cemetery. Yes, the cemetery. Not just any cemetery, but the cemetery where my grandparents are buried. Yvonne, the representative from the cemetery, was calling to ask me if my parents, who have already paid for their plots there, have informed me that I get a discounted plot/burial plan since I am their daughter. I was so flummoxed by the call, I didn’t really know what to say. I told her that I was “planning on cremating myself,” and though that is an impossible task, she didn’t miss a beat. She then – with a noted hint of disappointment in her voice – asked me what I planned to do with my ashes, and the only response I could calculate at the time was “I plan to spread them in a pond.” I was still hung up on the fact that the cemetery was calling me at 7:30 on a Thursday night. I was still thinking my first thoughts from when she clarified where she was calling from, those thoughts being that someone had grave robbed my grandparents and I was somehow put on a calling list to take care of the matter should it ever occur. Here I’ve got Yvonne trying to sell me a cheap family plot, and all I can picture is my mom and dad telling some faceless woman “Well, I guess we should give you our daughter’s phone number in case something like that should happen. She could get here the fastest.”
Yvonne wanted to meet with me tomorrow because she “likes to get these matters settled before the person dies.” I didn’t have the wherewithal to tell her that was obvious since I would not be able to take care of it post-life. Instead I just told her I would call her back, of which I have no intention of doing. I really hope she wasn’t rushing things because she knows something I don’t. #2013apocolypseforrealthistime