Anatomical Weirdness

I have another thing to list to my list of "Sara's Anatomical Weirdness" - my collar bones are unique.

A couple of weeks ago, Himself bought me a gift certificate for a massage from one of his co-workers (if you live in The Frontier and need a great massage, let me know - she was F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C).

Part of the way through my upper pectoral massage (yes, slightly weird, but made so much difference I went an entire week with no upper back pain), she stopped and said, "huh." When I asked what discover she had made she said, "Your collar bones are v-shaped."

I've taken anatomy, and I still didn't realize that v-shaped collar bones were not, in fact, anatomically normal. I responded with, "Huh? Aren't they supposed to be that way?" She assured me that they were not and, in fact, were probably contributing to much of my upper back pain, which seems to get worse the older I get (not to be confused with my chronic lower back pain some doctors are attributing to poor spinal alignment and arthritis).

In the several weeks since, I have made an unofficial study of collar bones. Indeed, mine are not straight across, like everyone else's I've seen recently. It kind of makes me wonder if I'm just some kind of freak of nature or if it's a genetic thing - but how do you work, "so what do [i]your[/i] collar bones look like" into a normal conversation without seeming at least slightly odd?

Just another thing to add to my misplaced ovary, my congenitally deformed sinus cavities, the missing liver enzyme and other oddities I call normal.

Before Going Postal ...

Today's bit of Factory office wisdom:

"If you're going to go postal, at least go UPS, their uniforms are better."

(Spoken by a wise woman after I made a thinly veiled reference to being "done with all this" at work).

Dagger. Heart. Bullseye.

As a general rule, I loathe Mondays, especially Mondays where you wake up and realize you're already way behind and they day has only barely begun.

Today ... well, today was a disaster in the making for several reasons, but the only one that mattered was that at 8 months, 11 days, Baby Girl sobbed for the first time when I left her at Miss Jan's.

I watched her little face crumple and her lip jut out and quiver just before Miss Jan whisked her inside - her quarter-century of tending children dictating that the episode was much more traumatic for Mom than Baby Girl. In the afternoon, she told me that Baby Girl quieted immediately upon being immersed among the Three Princesses (the three little girls who tend to Baby Girl as if she were their own baby sister), but it didn't help ... much.

This is the moment I've dreaded my entire life ... the moment when Baby Girl realized that I was leaving her, even if it was to supplement her very expensive and growing habit of eating me out of house and home (she may be tiny but the kid has a hollow leg!).

When your break up with your "one true love" at age 12 or lose a beloved childhood pet, you think your heart has broken into a million pieces.

What no one tells you is that your own offspring, with a single glance, can make every other grief seem petty.

I'm composed, my heart is mended, all was forgiven 30 seconds after I left, but there is the tiniest bruise on my heart tonight.

Does it Count if You Sleep Through it?

Today was stake conference - which meant the entire collection of neighborhood congregations met at once, stuffed into a too-small setting, relegating anyone arriving less than 30 minutes in advance to the pea-green, metal folding chairs in the gymnasium.

Himself stayed home - initially because FIL2 was down visiting, then because when FIL left, Himself had no time to get ready and Baby Girl was sound asleep for her second morning nap, after spending most of the night sobbing in my arms.

For some reason, I thought it necessary that I go, even though every fiber of my being was screaming, "no!" I am hoping that Heaven hands out brownie points for doing something that was strongly suggested, even if one didn't get a whole lot out of it. I am fairly certain the theme was "True Conversion." I think.

I slept through probably 50% of the sermons. I'm sure they were wonderful. I woke up during one, mid-nap, and prayed fervently that God would lift the foggy cobwebs and haze of not enough sleep, too much work and a teething infant so that I could commune with him with all the spiritual magnificence I knew I should.

But either He was sympathetic to my plight and figured that the two-hour worship service was all the quiet time I'd have (even seated on a chair so uncomfortable, I nearly spent the service walking up and down the hall, which in retrospect would have meant I would not have fallen asleep) or my willpower was buried somewhere beneath the hypnotic chants of "dim room, need sleep, must have sleep" running through my brain.

I wonder if it counts if you sleep through church?