Sometimes, those who DO remember the past don’t get a free pass

I just noticed that on re-reading this post, I never actually made the point I set out to make. Hush, you in the back.

Last night, I had dinner with Mom, and at one point she said, “You haven’t been posting much. You’ve been too busy, I guess.”

“I know. I hate it.”

“You’ll lose readers, you know.”

“There are always, like, forty people online when I look.”

“Yeah, it’s the same forty people coming back to see if you’ve updated.”


“You shouldn’t be working seven days a week.”

“The kids don’t think so either. They hate it. But I’ll work as much as I need to close the gap. I can’t relax knowing there is something I can do to ensure future revenue.”

“Well, it’s bad for your health. You need to take breaks.” She knows her daughter. I sit here for hours at a time and then nap for an hour, and then come back for more. It’s a wise mom who knows…. how does that go again?

Heh. I had some fun sourcing the quote I didn’t end up using in the title. I was looking up “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it” because I am the sort who actually documents the past (well, recent past) and am still occasionally repeating a grade or two.

Studying history is necessary to avoid repeating past mistakes. This saying comes from the writings of George Santayana, a Spanish-born American author of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Well, the funny thing is, I’ve been re-reading material from the last few years of this blog, and dammed if a lot of is didn’t sound familiar.

For instance, take my “flu” of the last three days (—please!). I’ve been suffering increasingly painful muscles, ultra-sensitive skin, and a general desire to slip into coma. Last night, when I read my February 6, 2006 post, it hit me that I was not dealing with the flu. I have a quaint little “secondary infection.” The symptoms are exactly the same. In fact, I was in such agony last night that I almost got up at 2:00 to drive myself to the hospital but hung on because I knew it wasn’t the weekend yet and that I could be still be seen if I snagged an appointment.

Also? I was flipping through my book, and hit August 28, 2004.

I am serious, folks. This is bad. And you know what I just did? I turned on the shower, crawled in, and shaved my legs. Yup. Uhuh. Shaved my legs.

And not because I am a nut job, but because each follicle had become a lightning rod for pain whenver the bedclothes brushed against my legs. I am dying a death here, folks, but it was vitally more important that I not have to will my body immobile to avoid searing pain each time I move in my sleep.

Do you know that I nearly got up and just shaved my legs instead of going to the hospital? Lovely. “I think I’ll go to the Emergency Room—no, wait!—I’ll just shave my legs!”

Wiiiiinnng-nut. But I still slept gingerly, with the covers thrown off my legs. I’m just basically waiting for an office to open so I can stop boring you and get going.

Oh, and by the way: holiday weekend, coming right up.

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