Well, so, I am neither drunk nor cryin’. I’m just on my couch with an ice pack, working through a fair amount of Righteous Indignation and Disappointed Entitlement, trying to figure out how to navigate being underinsured, with a master’s degree and a full-time job, here in America. (That was the righteous indignation, right there at the end, did you hear it?)
I’m in better shape today than I was yesterday, when I did the knee thing again sitting at my desk and came home shaky. I had to go for a three-pronged approach for treating complete physical collapse: ice for the knee, heat for the seized-up back, and an anti-inflammatory for both. Face-down on my living room rug was the most comfortable spot.
Three prongs were not enough. I also had a shot of whiskey.
Lying on the floor, I had the “What Would A Bond Girl Do?” conversation with myself. I had no good answers to that. A Bond Girl probably wouldn’t do the face-down on the floor thing. She’d probably have a Swiss bank account and a slew of men to attend to her recovery. She’d have a job with better benefits. She’d have a bionic knee and a fabulous dress and some sort of secret weapon strapped to her thigh.
Eventually I decided that a Bond Girl would not let a concert ticket go to waste, and that moving felt better than not moving, so I gradually went vertical, and drove to Cat’s Cradle. There I discovered instantly that being in a crowd of people who won’t stand still is difficult when your whole physical assembly is fragile. Tift Merritt is one of my all-time favorites, and I was really excited about Justin Townes Earl, and for those I had even skipped Phil Cook at Tir Na Nog. It would take a lot to make me skip Phil Cook at Tir Na Nog. In the end, I didn’t even make it all the way through Tift’s set, trying to balance mostly on one foot. (For the record, a Bond Girl would also have quickly dispensed with the Junior Leaguer next to me, with her back to the stage shouting cheerfully over the music so her date could hear every word. As well as the rest of us.) I made it through “Good Hearted Man,” though. Worth the drive, every time.
Today I tried calling the doctor for an hour, and the line kept ringing “all circuits are busy.” I drove to the office at lunch to make an appointment. Said appointment will cost me $175, to get a referral for a $1000 MRI, and then another $175 follow-up appointment so he can tell me what’s next. I already know what’s next. I can not afford what’s next. I can’t even afford what’s first. I’m canceling the appointment, as long as I’m vertical and I have any choice at all about it.
Thus, it is Friday afternoon, and my ice pack and I are playing angry songs and dedicating them to the person who selected my health insurance plan. First is “Cryin’ Drunk,” than “Niteclub,” than anything else anyone can suggest. This one’s pretty good, what with all the wailing and hair-swinging.
I might watch it again.