A little over two weeks ago a text conversation with my husband went like this:
Me: I got the heart monitor.
Him: How bad is it?
Me: There's a lot of cords and electrodes and a sensor and there's also a phone you have to wear around.
Him: Will you be ok with all of that?
Me: I am Borg. I will adapt.
So then two weeks went along. And in that two weeks a lot of stuff happened. I expected one very sick grandma to die (she didn't) and didn't even think about the other grandma (who then died) and I had problems with my work and with my art and my allergies wreaked havoc on my sinuses and chest. And my chest wall injury refuses to heal which means I've had to lay off benchpress (my favorite lift and lifting is how I avoid needing therapy/prozac) for three months and I really expected it to get better. And all the while I went around my house and the grocery store and the gym with electrodes attached to my body, cords hanging off, a sensor that beeped for no reason sometimes, a phone that vibrated noisily if I got too far away from it. I didn't like it but, like I said, I would adapt.
I have very pale, very thin, very easily damaged skin. The electrodes were itchy and, after a few days, they started to burn. I rotated the patch placement but there's only so far you can move them as they have to be attached in specific places on your body to get an accurate picture of your heart. The skin wasn't healing nearly fast enough.
I finally called the doctor and asked if there was anything that could be done throwing around words like: welts, weeping, and scabs. They hung up and, I suppose, talked amongst themselves then called back after a few minutes and informed me that I could take the whole thing off and send it back--they had enough information.
I was FREEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
I actually, really did this. I boxed up my monitor and then went out for a run. It was glorious. I mean, the pollen count where I live is about 9000% at the moment so I was hacking and wheezing by the time I got back but, whatever, I was free.
I didn't realize how much this thing had weighed on me. Maybe if my February hadn't already been so ridiculous. Maybe if I'd been able to go about my regular workout routine. Or maybe if my parents' moms weren't both dying at the same time with my dad's birthday sandwiched in for good measure. Or maybe if I'd managed to be productive in my writing or hadn't had to cancel two commissions. Or maybe if various other things hadn't happened, I wouldn't have felt so encumbered by the wires and the sensor and the stupid phone. As it was I felt like that time The Doctor wrote an autobiographical holonovel and everyone playing his program had to wear a fifty pound backpack to symbolize his connection to his mobile emitter.
|Photons be free!|
Anyway, right this very second I'm continuing my re-watch of TNG and it's goofy as hell.
They have no idea who they are or what they're doing. They're stuck in the trap of basically just mimicking the Trek that came before. It's all over the place. The Ferengis are ridiculous. The science is subpar. The dialogue is dated and heavy-handed. It goes on and on. Still, there is the seed of something great here. Patrick Stewart is obviously amazing. The rest of the crew has clear potential. It really is a new generation for Star Trek but it's young and awkward. It's like that gawky eighth grade school picture you never want anyone to find. But, of course, if you were never that weird, awkward kid, you'd never be the awesome adult (who complains relentlessly about trivial health issues on the internet) you are now.