My Day Off

Since I've been in recovery from chronic fatigue syndrome, one of my biggest challenges is knowing when to work and when to stop. Do I push myself when I'm tired? Everyone gets tired, right? But if I do push myself, will I end up in a wheelchair again? Not everyone ends up in a wheelchair when they're tired. To help deal with this dilemma, last year I decided I would take one day per month and do only restful, relaxing things. I would take a good book to a coffee shop, browse clothing stores, check out a few old bookstores, not answer my phone, and eat a nice lunch somewhere I didn't have to cook or do dishes.

I've almost done it a few times, but ended up after a few hours answering my phone and running off on errands the rest of the day, so one day a while ago, I decided I would buckle down and do this thing. Thursday was to be My Day. And all of my hardworking Amish ancestors roll over in their graves at the horror of the thing. My boss called me and asked if I couldn't possibly work at another clinic on Thursday; I told her I was sorry, but I already had plans. Now I really couldn't back out. I slept late that morning, a great beginning to My Day. After I ate breakfast, I put my supper in the crock-pot (Okay, so I had invited my entire family over for supper, but I figured that was fairly stress-less.) and headed off to town.

My first stop was the library, where I picked up a new Terri Blackstock novel and a great old George MacDonald book and headed toward Hattiesburg. My plans for the day were relaxing: stop at a discount clothing store, visit a decorator fabric store where they allegedly had great deals on remnants I could use to recover some chair seats, eat lunch at that fabulous new Greek restaurant and find a new, cozy little coffee shop where I could spend the rest of the afternoon with my books.

The day went great all the way up through the clothing store, where I found two cute blouses (one of which, incidentally, I've never been able to wear). Then I headed for the fabric store. I drove up the street. I drove down the street. I drove up the street again, thinking I must have missed it the first time, but nowhere was the shop I remembered. I guess it just disappeared. Or moved. Or I forgot where it was. Or perhaps I just dreamed it. I did see an adorable little bakery/coffee house with an Eiffel Tower theme, so the search was not completely in vain.
Ah, well, one disappearing shop was not enough to ruin My Day. After all, I was going to that Greek restaurant next. I'd wanted to go ever since the first billboards appeared, but everyone else was afraid they would serve Weird Food, so I never made it. Weird Food, which in Mississippi means pretty much anything other than fried catfish or chicken, Chinese or Mexican food, is something I greatly enjoy. So when I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot at the Greek restaurant, my mouth was watering at the thought of lamb kebabs, warm yogurt sauces and flatbread. Unfortunately, the fabulous Greek restaurant didn't open until 4 p.m. I was hungry now and didn't see myself waiting four hours for food, so I ended up eating at Applebee's.

Ah, well, two disappointments were not enough to ruin My Day. After all, I had seen that adorable Parisian bakery/coffee house down the street. And I had saved room for dessert. It was still a lovely day. So I drove back the the cafe, and pulled into the--once again--empty parking lot. Something didn't seem right. The front door had a sign "Please use back door--remodeling." Oh, okay. The back door had another sign. "KEEP OUT." Bother. Someone must have tried to serve Weird Food there.

Ah, well, one more disappointment was not enough to ruin My Day. I kept out, as directed, and with a sigh, headed down to Starbucks, my old familiar friend. After settling into my chair with my feet propped up, a Venti Iced Latte in one hand, George MacDonald in the other, things started looking up for me. After all, I still got both food, coffee, and a book. Soon, though, my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, which read "out of area," and righteously decided to ignore it. Probably a salesman. I returned to my book and coffee. To make things even better, a Starbucks barista came around soon offering free samples of their new White Chocolate Rasperry Mocha Frappuccino. I eagerly accepted mine, and after the first taste, tipped the straw a little too far towards my mouth and dumped the rest of the the free sample down the front of my shirt. Using all the napkins I had picked up, I cleaned myself up as best I could, and returned to my relaxing day. Soon the phone rang again. Again I glanced quickly at the caller ID. This time it was a dear friend whom I hadn't spoken to for a long time, and who was probably calling me to tell me she'd had her baby. I had to answer. As I chatted with her about her new little boy, I loaded the rest of my coffee and myself into my car and headed home.

By the time I reached Wal-Mart, where I needed to pick up some Greek olives for my supper (yes, I was serving Weird Food), I decided to check my voice mail and see which salesperson I had managed to avoid previously. I shouldn't have been surprised, the way the rest of the day was going, to discover that I had not avoided a salesperson, but a dear friend from China who was leaving America today and just wanted to chat with me before she left. This day was not going so well. In Wal-Mart, I quickly located my groceries, loaded them up and headed back out to my car. Eager to get out of the scorching heat, I reached into my pocket for my keys, and was hit with a sinking feeling. I walked around the car and looked in the passenger side window. Sure enough, there they were, dangling tantalizingly from the ignition. I called home. It would be at least 30 minutes, my sister said, before she could make it in with the spare keys. I returned to the cool interior of Wal-Mart, plunked my grocery bags into a cart, and meandered off down the vegetable aisle to wait. I hadn't even gone so far as the lettuce when--crash! My jar of Greek olives rolled out of the bag, out of the cart, and shattered into millions of tiny pieces on the floor. Olive juice splashed up into my sandals, along with a few choice shards of glass. I clenched my teeth and did not scream, but smiled politely instead. "Please, sir," I said to a Wal-Mart employee walking past with a mop, "could you help me get this cleaned up?" He looked at the mess and drawled "Weeeelll, Ah'd need t' go get th' cleaning cart." So I waited, as he ambled off into the distance. And I waited. And while some people tried not to stare, others didn't bother with the politeness. I waited some more. Finally, he meandered back in my direction with a cleaning cart. After we got done cleaning up the mess, I bought a new jar of olives, and sat down on a bench at the door. It seemed safer, somehow.

I finally reached home, and managed to pull off supper with no tragedies. But I couldn't bring myself to open my new chef knife. I would wait for another day. Maybe after a nice relaxing day at work tomorrow.