It's been very hot weather lately. I hate it. I mean, I really really hate it! Heat like this makes me feel smothered, suffocated, trapped. It also makes me feel like I have a low-grade flu all the time, the symptoms of which only subside when the heat relents.
In addition to all this, hot weather makes my back pain worse because it's just too darned hot to lie on heating pads and take the hot baths that so relieve my pain.
Of course, I also burn easily and am very prone to sunstroke.
So, yeah, I hate hot weather.
Maxi dresses are not a solution to my discomfort but they are an aid.
|Dress: Route; Sandals: Wonders; Earrings and right hand ring: Birks; Necklace and gold-toned bangles: gifts from Beau; Glass bangles and sunglasses: vintage; Hair clips: Stylize; Pinkie ring: boutique|
Let's face it: maxi-dresses are the closest we'll ever get to wearing our nightgowns in public. Well, there was that nightgown that my much loved aunt let me wear as a dress in southern California heat when I was six, but, since then, I've made an effort not to wear nightgowns as day-wear. Pajama tops: maybe. Nightgowns: no.
The pain in my lower back increases exponentially over the day, especially if I'm trying to do... well, anything that involves being upright for a while. I often stretch it out as I'm doing here, trying to relieve the pain. Nothing is a cure but some things are a help.
I finally have a mobility scooter, which has given me more freedom, but I'm supposed to try to be a bit active so as not to lose what little strength I have. When walking, I've been having to use a cane all the time now.
I do so hope you've noticed that I try to co-ordinate my canes with my outfits. If I had more money, I'd have more canes, but at least I have a brown one and a black one, to match cool and warm toned outfits. I also now have a really pretty white one decorated with delicate pink flowers. It's a summery cane, don't you know?
Beau and I don't own a car but we do use a car co-op, so Beau can ferry me around when I'm not doing well, which is often. I find myself waiting in the car a lot, while he runs errands that are too painful for me to handle, or just infinitely faster for him to run on his own.
I watch the world outside of my window (to quote the band, 10,000 Maniacs) and feel sad sometimes. I'm an introvert so I don't generally ache to join the world, but I do feel jealous of the people who have the choice of whether or not to join or reject it. It's like gay marriage: you might not personally want to get married, but you sure do want the choice to be yours to make. My back prevents me from choosing whether or not I'm out and about and a part of the world I don't even always like that much.
On this particular day, I had another reason for wearing a very comfortable dress. Milo needed to visit the vet. I know from experience that, whenever I take a kitty to the vet's, my back pain gets much worse because I get all tense and worried.
Probably because of my own history as an abused child, I can't bear to see animals suffering, especially since it's impossible to explain to them what's going on. (I long ago stopped eating all meat but seafood.) When they cry in the car and get scared or angry at the vet's, I stiffen up and, presto: pack pain.
But, as we all know, even geriatric cats like ours can get themselves into all kinds of trouble, like Bobby here, discovering cottage cheese and immediately throwing up because he's lactose intolerant.
Both of them recently got into a fight with a neighbour cat who made the mistake of thinking that they might like some company in our back yard. They both got bitten but, while Bobby's cuts healed well, Milo's did not.
So, off to the vet we went, crying Milo indignant in his home-made cone, but still happy to accept ear rubs. The vet and his assistants were all very impressed with Beau's makeshift cone. They said it was the best one they'd ever seen. Milo was quite a bit less impressed.
So yeah, even old cats and fat cats still get into trouble, but they seldom catch birds and that's a good thing, since I'm bird crazy. After three years of trying, I finally attracted a Goldfinch to my feeders. Soon, he brought a girlfriend, and, a while after that, they brought their young.
Aren't they the prettiest little things? Hint for attracting them: they like Niger Seed, but you've got to be patient.
Hummingbirds are another favourite of mine. I have no fears of my cats catching hummingbirds. Who ever catches hummingbirds?
Hummers are very territorial so I've really only been getting the one female (the one on the right). But, for a few days, a male (the one on the left) tried to share our flowers and feeders with her. She chased him out of our yard over and over again. Here, he's standing his ground, hissing at her. I think his efforts failed because I haven't seen him since, but I have seen her.
She won the argument and continues to enjoy our home, safe cats and all.
Old cats are a special kind of weird and require different sorts of care. This is my vet's very friendly cat, a long hair too old to groom herself well. They took the clippers to her for the summer and this was the result. She has no sense of how silly she looks. She knows for a fact that she looks great and we all want to love her and hold her as usual. She's half right.
But old cats, like disabled humans, mean more medical appointments. Thus, I knew what to wear for maximum comfort, without sacrificing style.
And this finally brings us back to my bright and colourful outfit. I wear this dress a lot but it's only made it into the blog once before, here.
The children's playground, with all its bright, primary colours, seemed the perfect backdrop for a photo shoot with such a colourful dress. This was after the exhausting vet visit, of course.
Cats are way less work than kids. Who was the little snit kid who thought this was funny? Such a rebel he/she is... not.
Actually, I kind of am a mom now, or a step-mom anyway, but our kids are older, almost ten and almost thirteen, two milestone birthdays up and coming. They're now too old for a playground, and, I hope, too young to make stupid signs about "weed." I hope they never get into drugs.
I did but that was pretty much inevitable. There were a lot of drugs in my home and it was common for adults to give them to kids. The first time I remember using pot, I was eight and my mother gave me pot brownies on a hiking trip, something I would never do with my step-children, or any children. By the time I was twenty-one, I was completely drug free. When your parents think something is cool, it holds little appeal after a while. Besides, I had better things to do with my time, like getting an education, and earning money as a writer. A rebel I am, and drugs get in the way of that.
So, while my step-kids are too young for drugs and too old for playgrounds, I'm the reverse: too old for drugs, and old enough for playgrounds. But I'm too disabled to play in them in any conventional way. Play and fun have to be found in different ways for me.
I pose artfully near the playground equipment, and try to make it look like leaning on it for support is part of the art, not part of the disability.
I get all bossy with my photographer (aka, Beau).
(I think I look just like a Jewish mother here but maybe I'm buying into the stereotypes.)
I colour and pattern coordinate with my city, and with this playground, instead of playing on it.
I bedeck myself with jewelry.
I frame myself like a painting, the active subject of my art, rather than the object of someone else's art, as so many women have been over the course of history.
I pose with flowers that match my outfits ...
... the flowers and I both catching the sun to the best effect.
I make up new ways to wear my hair.
(I think this is Beau's second best photo bomb, his dark shadow on my shockingly white back. His best photo bomb -- so far -- ever is here.)
I wear wacky sunglasses and take selfies.
I learn new ways to attract new birds.
And I laugh at my cat in his stylish new cone.
These are some of my new ways to have fun and be playful in my pain. Do I miss dancing and running and walking and a million other things I used to do for fun? Of course I do! But sometimes, in tragedy, old dreams and ways of being do need to be let go. But they must be replaced with new ones or the spirit will fall to its knees.
So I have my fun. And I call it art.
Oh, and don't worry, Milo is perfectly fine now. Fat -- and fine.
(All the cats and I are joining the fun over at Visible Mondays at Not Dead Yet, 52 Pick Me Up at Spy Girl, and at Shoe Shine at Ephemera.)