Conjuring Good Vibrations

It’s been a week since my spectacular one-woman bicycle accident—amazingly, along a straight-away on a paved road—that somehow screwed up my knee. The more I think about it (it’s been a long week), the more I have no idea how I managed such a Charlie-Chaplinesque move.

One minute I was zooming along, wondering about those Christmas packages perched on the back, and the next, my bike and I were splayed in unnatural angles on the side of the road, my bright crocs an impossible distance from each other, and my consciousness fading in and out like there’s a buffer in the transporter beam and Scotty can’t get a fix on me.

In the week leading up to today’s orthopedist appointment, I’ve gotten all kinds of advice along the diagnosis continuum, from knee surgery = evil to knee surgery = savior. I’ve decided I’m gonna cheer myself up so that no matter what the doc says, I’ll be in good humor.

80° & Sunshine

That’s the forecast for Christmas Day here. The sun feels so good on my skin (finally) that to get to it I’ve figured out how to scoot down the Airstream steps by myself and scoot back up. It’s not graceful, especially with a skirt on, but I’ve lost all pride. A little accidental flashing of my neighbors is worth independent access to the outside world.

And while I’m thinking about my image as a flasher in this RV park, what’s up with all the comments from neighbors who stop by now that I’m outside? I can’t count how many mentions I’ve heard of how I’m so active, and isn’t it hard for me, in particular, to be sidelined?

Apparently, I’ve been making a spectacle of myself riding my bike back and forth to the laundry room, the hot tub, the clubhouse for yoga. Most people drive these ubiquitous golf carts that the park rents out, so maybe I have been a bright little anomaly riding around on my red bike. No more.

I’ve made fun of people in golf carts in campgrounds since the beginning of this blog. It just cracks me up that some people go camping seemingly as an excuse to decorate their golf carts and cruise the campground.

And now, in a cruel but predictable twist of fate, I’m joining their ranks. No matter how long I’m gonna be on crutches, I cannot just sit around, so Tracy has put us on the waiting list for one of these suckers. It’s gonna get me to the clubhouse, the hot tub, the mailbox, whatever, I don’t care. I’ll turn up my iphone speaker and drive around and around the park if I have to.

Yoga & Ukulele

Actually, I got the idea of driving a golf cart around and around from two teenage girls who have pool noodles hanging off the back of their cart, music blaring, silly sunglasses on, the whole good-vibrations nine yards. God, do I want to be them. So, I’m working on infiltrating their two-person sorority.

I pulled a move like I did on Mars when I met Tyll: I started playing uke with them. These girls are fun and funny. They think I’m an old lady (?) and started explaining to me that there’s this movie called The Hunger Games. Yes, um, I read those books, in fact. Seriously, they like hanging out, trying to find songs we all know, and teaching each other what we don’t. Yes, Santa, there are 15-year-olds who want to play, “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” the Elvis version.

(I cropped out our faces because I don’t dare ask if I can use photos for this blog. There are 300 sites here, and all 300 of us are in everyone else’s business, with a private facebook group and complex games involving cocktail crawls from site to site and I don’t know what else. So, this blog stays private as long as I can manage it.)

In addition to hanging with teenagers, to try to branch out my activities I borrowed my neighbor’s golf cart and drove myself to the clubhouse (first time driving a golf cart, and OKAY THEY ARE FUN) for something called chair yoga. Which turns out not to be 100% sitting, but it felt good to do whatever I could. So there is hope for stuff to do outside, even on crutches.

Airstreams Turn Out to Be Handy

Ignore my last post about how hard it is to live in the trailer with crutches; I’ve been proven wrong. After I wrote that, I had a long chat with my Airstream friend Sherri in Tennessee, and she reminded me about her breaking her leg (also on her bike—twins again). Back then, she had both a house and her trailer to recover in, and she says the trailer is much easier.

Narrow hallway means there’s always something to hold on to. Small space means you don’t have far to navigate with crutches, plus your partner doesn’t have far to go to get you stuff. Sherri says several people in her Airstream park have recovered from knee injuries in their trailers, no prob. Okay!

Banjo, by the way, is terrible company for the crippled. She resents that I’ve been sleeping on the sofa (she does not share willingly) and she jumps when my crutches fall over. She will nap with me in the tent, though. (Between sessions of sulking that she’s not all the way outside.)

Come on, Banjo, we need to pick up good vibrations. Plus, maybe I’ll have good news about the knee, next up!