Small Pains

Yesterday I had three vials of blood drawn for testing for diabetes, thyroid issues, and the other basic physical complaints about which my anesthesiologist father always inquires prior to wheeling his patients into the operating room. The nurse was quietly efficient, punching straight into the vein without excessive fuss, and plugging in one little vial after another without jamming the needle further into my arm. This is an enviable skill. I've had less able blood-drawers over the years, including one incompetent woman who nicked the side of the vessel, sending blood geysering a yard away. I laughed. I knew I wasn't going to bleed to death, and she was so totally freaked out by this that I was more concerned about calming her down than worried about myself. It was rather spectacular. Like a fountain. I did have a really nasty bruise on my arm afterwards, though. Today, thanks to yesterday's professional draw, I only have a tiny red dot. That's not what hurts.

What hurts is pretty much everywhere else. My muscles are sore in places I didn't even know I had muscles. Do a few situps, run a few miles, and ouch. Man, I'm getting old.

One signpost on my way to old age is my changed optical prescription. My right eye has improved. I got my new glasses in the mail the other day, along with several boxes of contacts--huge, ridiculous expense--from my optometrist down in Augusta (between visiting him and my dentist, the success at the Broad Street Market Saturday before last didn't put me too far ahead finances-wise). The new frames make me look vaguely Harry Potterish. Or old maidenish, depending on the charity of the observer. Very light and comfortable, though.

Comfort can be found in curious places here in DC. One of the odder I've seen was on the way to Bible Study yesterday (we're reading John Stott's Why I am a Christian, which I highly recommend to all). It was towards the end of rush hour, seven o'clock. Rush hour in DC is a multi-hour, morning and evening gauntlet loathed by all who are so unfortunate to have to endure it. Tempers fray, accidents of more and less severity inevitably occur, and most people arrive at their destinations later and in worse shape than they'd hoped. One fellow may have found a solution to the stress, though. I was stuck in traffic on I-66 when I saw him, his motorcycle neatly parked on the verge. He was up the grass slope above the bike, sitting on the wide concrete base of a lamppost, comfortably propped up by the pole, engrossed in a book. What a great idea! When things slow down too much to make sitting still and swearing at the bumper of the car in front of you any fun, just pull over, walk up out of harm's way, and read. And it was definitely the weather for outdoor reading yesterday--cool (and it's July!), yet sunny.