Over the last five months, I’ve knocked out two hip surgeries, a car accident, one brain injury, and a break-up. People are starting to keep their distance from me. Seriously. I don’t blame them…I don’t want to be around me either. Some joke that it’s bad karma. Really? So in a past life, you’re pretty much telling me I was one of those brawds on Van Buren Street, selling oral for a syringe of heroin and a slurpee and popping out opiate-addicted babies left and right. And then there are those people who look at me intently and repeat that old friggin’ adage, “What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger.” No, you know what would make me stronger? Working out my bicep muscles by punching you right in your sanctimonious face. Of course, I’ve got cheerleaders surrounding me too, telling me to buy a lottery ticket because my “bad luck” is surely over now and I’m entitled to seven years of good luck. They convince me it’s a law of the Universe. Well, the Universe is full of it and I’m a sucker because guess what? I took that polly-positive advice and my Powerball ticket was a big fat loser.
So now I sit here – in compression stockings and iodine stained skin – with a new understanding of how people turn into religious freaks. I’m not talking about the average bi-weekly churchgoers; I’m referring to the overzealous crew who spread “The Word”, unsolicited and sometimes cruelly. A few years ago while running in a marathon on a Sunday morning I was accosted by a group of poster wielding religious freaks. They were angry; angry that I was running on the streets and not sitting in a pew. I laughed at the absurdity and finished the race. But, now I kind of get where they were coming from. I don’t agree with it, but I get it. Those people were simply acting on what they believed in, and they believed so, so deeply.
We all want so desperately to believe in something or someone. Just something to soothe us, like aloe vera on a sunburn, when times get rough and feel unbearable. After my first hip surgery, I convinced myself “this” happened to me because I was an over-exerciser and I needed something to take me out. So, I slowed down and eased up on my obsessive-compulsive behavior. I dated a guy who was opposite me in so many ways and who I thought I was supposed to date (that damn Universe again) because it was what I “needed.” Well, he turned out to be everything he said he wasn’t and we all know that at 32, I don’t have time for games. So, I moved on. Right into a car accident that totaled my car and left me with a brain hemorrhage. I was in ICU for a few days where I flirted with the idea of calling my ex. I wondered if my car accident had to happen in order to bring the two of us back together again. I envisioned one of those sappy rom-coms where the leading man discovers his damsel is in distress and comes running to her. And then I realized I was high on morphine and called my mom.
So now, two days after my second hip surgery, I’m not letting myself get sucked into the “why game.” I’m done analyzing the bejesus out of every incident that happens in my life. I am not a crime scene investigator, thankyouverymuch. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. And sometimes good things happen to good people. And sometimes, everything has to crumble around you, like Humpty Dumpty, to allow for all the new and good things to come in.