I’m doing what I do. It’s starting. The sneaky fear is creeping in on little puppy paws.
“WHAT IF OUR FOOT SURGERY DOESN’T WORK? WE’RE RISKING A LOT. WE SHOULDN’T HAVE IT.” the pessimistic, terrified, part of me says, all scared, and a little snide and judge-y.
“Well, it’s time we take that risk, because it’s bothering us a lot, in terms of, you know living, so lets just try to be positive, and hope for the best,” my smart and rationale side says back, with cool confidence.
“YEAH, BUT WHAT IF OUR DOCTOR FUCKS UP AND WE’RE CONFINED TO A LIFE OF EXTRA WIDE NEW BALANCE SNEAKERS, OR WORSE YET, THEIR BOXES, AND WE HAVE PAIN ALL THE TIME, AND WE CAN’T WALK? THEN WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?”
“I think that’s unlikely. I believe that we have to do this, however scary and unpleasant, and that it will very likely make us better, and I hear New Balance has some really well designed boxes,” I rationally lob back to my insecure miserable side.
“WELL, I THINK WE’RE ASKING FOR IT. THE DEVIL YOU KNOW IS BETTER THAN THE DEVIL YOU DON’T KNOW. I THINK WE’RE MAKING A MISTAKE. AND IF YOU MUST KNOW, WE’RE SCARED.”
“Well, thank God you’re not running the show, because I think you’re an ass hat.”
My rationale side usually wins out in these sorts of conversations, but these two are constantly fighting. They’re worse than my kids. This surgery can’t come quickly enough. #23daysandcounting.