Holy balls! What will happen next? Is a lightning bolt going to come crashing from the heavens and fry my little brains. (bonus points if you know where that is from) In the last few days I have cut myself, fallen off my bike, screwed up my shoulder worse than the time I was a teen soccer player and it got kicked out of place. <—-yes, kicked.
Today I could barely move my arm and I valiantly went to work anyway. Suddenly I got really chilly and achy so I busted out a 3M thermometer. My temperature was close to 102! Seriously? Doesn’t the thermometer know I have a crapload of work to do in the next couple of weeks? I don’t have time to take off from work and pass out in the fetal position for the next several hours (which I did and when Michael came home I could barely open one eye to greet him). What have I done to deserve all of this? I was even nice and talked to a lady on a motor scooter with a whisker coming out of her left cheek last week! I hate whiskers! They creep me out almost as bad as rodents do.
As I hurt, and freeze and ache I begin to think about poetry and Shel Silverstein and a feeling of nostalgia comes over me. Shel was a huge reading influence for me when I first learned to read. From Hug O War to the Acrobats. There was always something original and funny he had to say. Twenty eight years later he still has something funny to say and every time I open one of his books I discover something awesome that I hadn’t seen before. All of these years later, my son thinks just as highly of him, despite the fact that there are options that could be perceived as better like digital books and Sponge Bob and video games.
In celebration of my current state of affairs, I figured I should suck it up and put a sock in it and dedicate a little poem to myself. Sometimes people get sick (and fall off their bikes and cut their fingers and dislocate shoulders). But maybe instead of sitting on their couch and feeling sorry for themselves, they should focus on things like good books and quirky poems and awesome nine year olds that make them feel like they are a winner in the lottery of well behaved children.
By Shel Silverstein
“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more–that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut–my eyes are blue–
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke–
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is–what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tagged: nostalgia
