Saturday, August 10, 2019

Change of Focus

You wouldn't think laser eye surgery would be much of an undertaking but you'd be wrong.  I was astonishingly drained after the performance early yesterday morning.  Afterwards I slept for a good deal of the afternoon, the type of relapse more generally associated with honest physical labour. The bloody thing quite took it out of me! My respite wasn't long-lived. I was bolted again to duty and standing upright bright and early this morning to revisit the surgeon's office for the initial "follow up" which - as a cautious mandarin of the legal process - I unhesitatingly perceive to be a delicate way of capturing the distinct possibility of trouble. Luckily for me I appear to have escaped any so-called "complications".  Yet they want to see me again in another four days. This medical procedure is seemingly less durable than open heart surgery when the soonest I had to re-attend the hospital was three months thereafter or earlier if sudden death approached.

The favourable fallout - aside from the obvious feature of having concluded the first of two surgeries - is that I have been relegated to complete lassitude. They don't want me lifting anything - not even bending over to tie my shoelaces (both for the same reason that holding one's breath can cause expansion of the eyes and may therefore disrupt the sowing of the new lens) - and I have been told to avoid exercise (which for me is bicycling) for two weeks.  The cycling may - in addition to its speculative issue of exertion - precipitate a fall which would naturally risk offending the stability of the new lens.  As a result I have willingly hardened myself to a régime of indolence. I celebrated the prospect by going to the golf club for breakfast this morning following my medical attendance.  I openly languished in the late morning sunshine overlooking the Mississippi River while watching the athletic golfers fulfilling their mandate.

It isn't often I have the luxury of indulging myself unequivocally in idleness.  In fact I rather dislike inertia no matter how philosophic its characterization. But in this instance - similar to those occasions when one is having one's teeth cleaned - inactivity is not only desirable but more significantly mandatory. I believe I have the capacity to accommodate necessity more readily than most - though I qualify the talent by noting my predominant inclination to fly in the face of exigency if I am not convinced of its logic. Once however the systematic arrangement is established I am a perfect slave to the demand.

Perhaps I betray myself by confessing to have adulterated the purity of my listlessness by pursuing a local bakery for foreseeable reward.  That documentary film we lately watched on Netflix about the addiction to sugar is not without its persuasiveness.  Almonte was today hosting an outdoor basketball kerfuffle so I knowingly avoided attempting to negotiate Baker Bob's emporium.  Instead I discovered a new place - The Olde Towne Bakery - on Lake Avenue West in Carleton Place.  The most agreeable young lady behind the counter directed me to her personal favourites to which I added my own (specifically Nanaimo bars).  The multi-grain bread I bought proved to be ideal for a peanut butter and honey sandwich.

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