Girl Steamrollered

Not enough spoons in the world for this week. I’m awaiting an Oscar nomination for the performance I’ve been giving in my very independent film, which I’m titling “Girl Steamrollered; or How I (Mis)Managed Gala Week.” Anyone who works for a nonprofit is now giggling in a sadistic way: The Gala is a necessary evil in our field. And, it will take even the healthiest enthusiast to a very dark place. I have been attempting to crawl out for the last week.

Feel free to shout Martyr! at your screen anytime. I realize that I could probably get out of loading-in the silent auction, or clearing the ballroom at the end of the night. I am terrible about setting boundaries. Part of the issue is that my pain is not instantaneous: I can, and do, MANY stupid things before I’m actually in more pain the next day. I prefer my Wonder Woman cape to a chair, which makes it very easy for my fellow staff members to ignore my limitations.

What I need is some sort of service animal (maybe I need a pony) to stand between me and the heavy objects. Because what my co-workers are not seeing is the pain and illness I undergo after a gala weekend. It is reminiscent of Sunday mornings in the dorm, but without the indulgence deserving of a hang-over. For me, gala night means double my usual medication and an apple sauce diet for the next six days.

I guess I am going to file this blog post under Ridiculous things people with chronic pain do because they are tired of not being normal.  I am going to set it on a timer, so that it will pop-up the day before our next event, to remind me to leave my cape at home…and to bring my pony.

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