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How to recover from major hip surgery

August 27, 2015 The Wine Time Dad 0 Comments Category : , , , , , , , , ,

           I have quite literally done everything in my power not to post for the last month. I feel like I’ve been avoiding this blog better than I usually avoid tripping over my daughter’s toys. Or, tripping over my actual daughter. And, since we’re talking about avoiding things, I’ve also been avoiding my fatherly duties. True story, that, but it's totally alright- I've been on crutches, and no one can chase a 2 yr old while on crutches, much less avoid the obstacles she leaves in her destructive wake.

It's not that I didn't want to post anything or that I had nothing to post, I did. But, post-surgery rest is demanding, and the drugs are strong. Between the drugs, Netflix and the passing clouds outside, I had very little energy and concentration left. Just watching those billowing white rain-banks for more than 15 minutes usually knocked me out for hours. Then it would be nighttime. At which point the city lights would take over where the clouds left off, drawing in my doped up neurons.
          Needless to say, I had to put my supernaturally keen intellect on hold in order to give the clouds and city lights their due attention. I also had weeks of shows and months of saved movies. With the extra sets of helping hands during my convalescence, I made use of my liberated free time. Ahh... I Never watched Deadliest Catch and Ink master so guilt free. 

          My general blogging ambivalence aside, I did have time for reflection. What else you gonna do when couch-zoning or languishing on the balcony (wine in hand)? In a strange metaphor for my immobility, the balcony became my own Rear Window of sorts, from which I took countless Instagram pictures of the same scenery, at different times of the day and from different angles. When not preoccupied with the passers-by down below (or the clouds), I pondered the universe from on high, becoming somewhat inspired. And, we all know what happens when I become inspired, don’t we?

Yes, poetry happens. But, I am not cruel enough to subject my handful of readers to that idiocy more than once or twice a year. 

So, while my ass formed a perfect indentation on the side of the couch closest the window, I, uh, ruminated on life's great mysteries. In verse. Analytical DC Daddy became poetic observer Wine Time, who endeavored to always ask for favors as soon as one of his tireless caretakers was about to sit down. I felt needy and selfish but recuperation demanded I be that way. Sloth became me and sloth was good. 

          The cosmos will probably forgive me.

However, just so you know that it wasn't all leisure and pure unadulterated poetry, I did have to suffer some indignities. Imagine watching others unravel your flawless discipline and schedule, only to fall short of your god-like perfect parenting. Oh, how I cried silent tears of frustration over the weeks, knowing I wouldn't be held accountable for the seamless morning routine I invented. For months I would be free of it! I mean to say, bereft of it. Oh, woe was me! 

          Only the narcotically induced constipation paralleled the sudden loss of control over my personal minion. I now understand why dictators never give up their rule and why constipation is its own form of torture. Nevertheless, I had to endure and endure I did. There's only so much you can do to coax your bowels to work.  

But, sitting around, smirking at other's missteps around my capricious toddler, would never get me through two months of recovery. I needed a plan. Since I wasn't here, but wanted to feel productive, I needed something to do during commercials, or while the next movie loaded. Something more ambitious than ordering people around and staring off into space. 

I decided I’d do what any irresponsible parent should do when they’re not focused on their offspring, I social media’d the shit out of my down time.

That’s right. Instead of doing something constructive, I became what I feared most, a serial commenter on Facebook. I stalked news feeds, looking for posts with which to disagree and impolitely inserting my opinions where they were least wanted. I even found plenty of alarming news articles to post, only to see if anyone was foolish enough to take the bait. Of course, I was disappointed when no one took the bait. This urged me to troll some more. Once again confirming that most on my friend's list don't give a shit about my religious/ political views. Ah, good on them. I have solid friends. But, it being Facebook, there's always someone who's game. 

          I've probably been embarrassing myself on social media for the last few months- something my ego keeps me blind to. Whew.  

On the flip side, I haven’t missed anyone’s Facebook birthday for almost two months.

So, I rock. 

          Yet, Facebook wasn't my only source of life wasting glee. I also found lots of time to reacquaint myself with my two twitter accounts, which I have for my own amusement. Surely, not as some lame attempt to gain more followers. Each morning I'd wake up, giddily checking my accounts for favorites, new followers or, if the internet gods were good, a retweet.  

For the last several weeks I watched my followers skyrocket 3-4 at a time, inspiring delusions of going viral. Only to see that they had plummeted 4-6 when I would lose interest in tweeting, which happened every couple of days.

Redoubling my efforts, I became obsessed. I even had a competition between the two accounts, to see which could out do the other with the cleverest tweet or most ridiculous troll. 

          Some days, in my frustration with one account or the other, I would punish them with either neglect or sabotage. When one of the accounts broke the rules, I would force them to troll prominent media figures. Which I think reminded my two twitter personalities about humility. There’s nothing more pointless and futile than trolling famous people. 

          On rare occasions, my wife would get ahold of my phone and further abuse my twitter accounts. This seemed to have no overall affect on the status of my few followers. It did make me feel... violated, though. 

I ultimately discovered, however, that both accounts were equal in their successes and failures in similar ways. Results that still boggle my mind. How could my two different accounts have nearly identical results? Science may never discern this strange phenomenon.

I also discovered that being the owner of both accounts, made determining a winner somewhat… Difficult.

How most people do golf. And, Twitter. 
In the end, my temporary, steroidal induced sessions with social media taught me that I couldn’t generate interest in my opinion online. Ironically, I'm no more or less relevant than before.  

I was also reminded of what a mental blackhole Twitter and Facebook are. Like youtube, they can just as easily suck you in. You simply don't gain by over indulging, you just hate yourself more. 

          Though, tweeting is easier than writing thank you cards and trolling Facebook is more fun. 

          Especially when you're drunk. 

          Despite these revelations, there were/are those rare occasions that someone retweets something you tweeted or you generate pages of argument on Facebook. Which is akin to finally hitting that perfect line drive at the driving range or getting a small payout at the slot machine. It's a feeling that will keep you swinging away or dropping money into the slot. Even when ninety out of a hundred balls (or dollars) is a "Fuck!", instead of a "Yes!". Even if every swing is a testament to your embarrassing lack of skill.

          And, I hate golf.     

Mama didn’t raise no quitter.

          The competition continues… 


Author's note: most of the thoughts and opinions in this post are probably exaggerated. Never trust the narrator, especially one who may be intoxicated. The author you can trust, but not the narrator.