North Alabama Weather Report, Physical Therapy, and People Watching

North Alabama Weather Report, Physical Therapy, and People Watching

This morning in North Alabama I awoke to the brilliant sunshine penetrating through my grimy windows. It broke into multiple beams as it pierced through the few clean spots in the glass. Usually I would draw the curtains shut to this intrusion but I felt rather spry today and walked outside. The sun smiled like an enchantress upon my pale skin. It has been raining for the past several days here and the lawn is drenched. It is going to take a few days of her glowing grin to dry up the mud. The wind is blowing briskly. Giving us a nippy 63 degrees this morning. The pasty white clouds that resemble dogs and people pass by swiftly.

The trees seemed to sway in harmony with the melodious melodies of the birds. One bird was so happy it actually began to get on my nerves. "If I only had a pellet gun," I thought. But then I realized I was kidding myself. I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. If I did get lucky and hit it, I would just cry because I had hurt the poor thing. Standing on the front porch, I decided to join it. I began singing shamelessly in my off tune shriek, "No time for loser, cause we are the championssss, of the world!" I carried on singing for a number of minutes because I actually new the words to this song. I was feeling elated, breathing in the cool air and because I thought I was sounding pretty damn good. The bird must have been jealous because it flew off. My son's window was open, about fifteen yards away and I suddenly hear, "OH! MY! GOD! Shut the hell up!" I giggled realizing I had just stirred him from his late morning beauty rest. Not wanting to piss him off any more, I turned and retreated to my trailer. Besides the neighborhood dogs were starting to yelp.

It was time to start my morning beauty ritual so I could be presentable in public. I had to go to physical therapy for my wrist since it is now out of a cast. I continued my various tunes in the shower where there was no one around to complain. It turned out to be a good hair day. One good thing about having hair less than an inch long all over your head is, when it's windy like today you don't have to worry about it getting messed up. When my daughter seen how short the beautician cut it the other day she replied, "Before long I'm going to be calling you G.I. Jane at the rate you keep going."

I told her next time I was going to go ahead and have her jersey number shaved in the back of my head.

She rolled her eyes and said, "I would rather you just color it blue like you did before."

Of course I'm not really going to. I just say these things to get her going. It works every time.

On the way to therapy I was backing my dad's cherry-apple red Silverado pickup truck out of the driveway. I'm not used to driving trucks. I went to far in reverse and ran off the railroad tie, landing in the mud. I turned the steering wheel in every direction, backed up more, and punched it, only to sink deeper into the muck. Finally, I made my way across the yard with my head hung low to my son's window.

"Daniel, are you asleep?"

"Not now! What do you want?"

"I've got papa's truck stuck. I need your help," I whispered through the screen.

"@#$$ *(&*^. Can't you do anything right! I'll be right there."

He found a piece of wood and put it beside the tire and gave me a shove telling me which direction to turn the wheel. The truck came on out and he got mud slung on him.

"*^% &*!#" he angrily screamed. I just kept on driving, yelling thanks out the window.

Therapy is always a painful experience. They bent my hand in every direction it didn't want to go. I would come up out of my seat and they would ask  innocently, "Does that hurt?"

"Uh, YEAH!"

Then I had to ride the bicycle with my hands. I'm way out of shape. I was huffing and puffing before my ten minutes were up. Next came shock treatment. I thought only psychiatrist had permission to do this. They hook these wires up to four sticky pads that they place around my wrist. Some how or another it is suppose to decrease the inflammation. I can't figure how in the hell shocking the area would do this but I don't argue. Before they turn the machine on they then wrapped my wrist in ice. This was very painful in itself. Punching some buttons on the machine they ask me if I can feel anything. Nothing at first. Then I start to feel a little tingling sensation in my fingers. Before I can say anything it suddenly feels like I have stuck my finger in a light socket.

"WHOW!" I scream. "What the hell are you trying to do to me. Turn that sucker back a notch a two."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Some people are just more sensitive than others," she smirks.

"What's that suppose to mean? Are you calling me a wimp?" I ask her.

"No, mam. I would never do that."

"Good."

Now I have to sit there for twenty minutes with frozen, tingly digits. Trying not to concentrate on the misery I start watching the people around me. The therapist starts to strap up another lady who is laying on her back getting treatment on her knee. This lady must be into pain.

The therapist says, "Tell me when it gets to be too much."

She lets out this toe curling, "YAHOOH!"

Everyone turns to look at her. She's laughing heartily and says, "Turn it up some more."

I'm thinking, "Oh my lord. I really must be a wimp."

Now before I continue I want to make the statement that I'm extremely overweight myself. So I mean nothing demeaning when I talk about her weight.

While she was carrying on getting shocked, her husband had a big grin on his face. I don't want to know why. He sits down beside her and holds her hand. I'm thinking about how sweet it is and how opposites do attract, I guess. She probably weighed every bit of three hundred pounds and he might have top the scales at one hundred and forty soaking wet.

The next table over was an older man in his eighties, probably, and his wife sat beside him, helping him do his exercises. Everywhere I looked there were couples helping each other.

There was one woman, I would guess to be in her mid fifties. She was very attractive and slim. She had a young partner who I couldn't take my eyes off of he was so good looking. And you could tell by the body language it wasn't her son. Damn, some women have all the luck. That's the route I'm going if I ever get married again. I'm going to find me some young stud to train the way I like. And I'm going to win the lottery next week, too. Needless to say, in my small town they were turning a lot of heads. But not near as much as the black man with his white wife. Your could hear the chatter all around when they walked through the door. I have no problem with it. The older members of our tiny community were having a ball gossiping about it, though.

All I could think about was how my happy day was now going down hill. I was now back on my pity pot. Looking at all these different people and how they all seemed to have found happiness with another person. There I sat all alone. But at least I don't have someone bellyaching about where their dinner is at or why their underwear isn't clean. That leaves me plenty of time to sit here and type my crazy little head off.

I think tomorrow I will go people watching at the park. Maybe someone will trip and fall. I've just now started this practice and I really need to work on my observation skills. We'll see where it carries me.