I am not good at asking people for help. I don’t think I ever got or would have gotten a plus, satisfactory, other positive grade in the “works well with others” category. I especially hated group projects, meaning it is a good thing that I aged out of the formal educational system before group projects became all the rage. I often said that Lightner’s First Law is “if you want it done right, do it alone,” an attitude I suspect I inherited from my Dad.
I have at times been encouraged to ask for help when or if I need it. The husband has often so encouraged me. When he does, I remind him of one time when I did ask him to help with something. His brother was there with him, and the two of them laughed at me and made fun of me for wanting help. I’m not sure he remembers doing it, but he does admit that it could have happened.
I have been, since the whole rotator cuff town 80 percent of the way through issue arose, trying to ask for help more. It may be a women from one planet, men from another case, but I somewhat think that if I thank someone for doing something or ask someone to help me with something that the next time I’m doing it, I won’t have to ask for help again. It was hard enough to ask the first time, for pete’s sake; don’t make me do it again.
And so, in the time leading up to Monday’s surgery, I have more than occasionally done something that I probably should not have. But the dishes aren’t going to put themselves away up on the top shelf, and I can do it one-handed with my left hand. Or so I think. I haven’t broken anything yet, but that might be coming. The laundry basket won’t take itself to or from laundry room in the basement. I can drag it down the steps behind me, but that doesn’t work as well on the way back upstairs. Fortunately, nothing I have done in this regard appears to have done more damage to the shoulder. And perhaps when the right arm is locked into place and not to be moved, help might be offered before I need it.
I am also not good at sitting or otherwise not doing anything in terms of a workout. The husband seems to think I should rest one day each week, but even that makes me feel somewhat guilty. Since the surgeon told me that I should not be working out given how little it would take to tear the remaiming 20 percent, I have not worked out other than walking the dog, which I don’t think counts since she’s not a large dog. As a result, I am getting quite cranky.
It also makes me cranky that I can’t seem to get a blog post written in one sitting, meaning that I lose the mood or my train of thought. I think I shall post this now and be done with it.