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Wednesday, June 07, 2006
14:04 
Apparently I need a P
 So a long time ago — about 4 years, anyway — the PG came up with another one of its "That's nice dear" statements. You know, the ones at which you nod and smile and then file away in the container marked trash.
Note that filing in trash isn't quite the same as discarding. There's always the option of retrieving it at a later date. You just need to rummage through some total rubbish to find it.
We get quite a lot of these in this game. That's the problem. Family life sits in that liminal space on the cusp between the Really Real World [TM] and total lunacy. We don't have the curse/blessing of absolute external validation, but nor are we granted the luxury of being able rationally to discount it all as a sign that we need psychiatric care.
It's probably quantum or something.
So this second to last humdinger of a TND statement (there was an even better one last year, but I'm not going to post it in case someone takes it as a challenge and frankly I have better things to do than try proving that one) involved my capacity to shift. According to them, I have been created with the ability to do so in a manner that would satisfy even Mr Disbeliever himself, James Randi.
So you can see why this one got filed under the category of trash. I mean, that one's right out there with Elf-specific Reiki symbols and werewolves.
Only recently things have been getting very physical. When I go into the pool the interactions with Dolphin and Seal, especially Dolphin, are physical. They feel physical. They feel real. Real water is in my real face. I can really hear the real sounds of real dolphin whistles. When they smack me round the head or poke me In the stomach to make a point about abdominal core rigidity, that's a real smack in my real head or a real poke in my real stomach. And I really did swim a real length under real water and came up at the end feeling I could have gone on to do another without coming up for air, on the basis of a cetacean shift Dolphin showed me.
Your muscles have to turn black.
And then there's the new training programme — physical training — which is totally insane. And it has been programmed in. Programmed. They haven't done this to me in 6 fucking years. They haven't had to. They still don't have to. I'm a good Gimp now. I'm as compliant as they come. I'm practically a pinion feather on my Old Man's wing. I don't need to be programmed.
But they've done it anyway, so now, even though I've creamed my knee and could use a few days rest to let it heal, I can't. If I skip a session I get panic attacks and start getting physically sick. It hurts. I'll go out and run in the rain and the cold if I miss a swim at lunch, because I can't fall behind. I can't. And when I complain and whine and grizzle they tell me that they've nearly got the P-shift thing licked and I can do this, of course I can do this, damage is only temporary I can shift past it.
Then they start crowing about how they've narrowed it down to an inability to synthesise proteins from vegetable sources. My diet changed overnight two weeks ago. I'm having weird cravings. They're harping on at me to get more sleep. I can't take hot showers any more. Frood has a shower and when I get in after him I have to turn the thermostat right down and it still feels hot. I've always been the one to complain about the water not being hot enough. Last night this freaked me out so much that I asked him if he turned the dial up after he got out — no, he told me. That was the temperature he had wanted his shower.
Back when all this started they told me, both directly and through a close relative, that I had to be careful of the heat. Now they're saying that all these abrupt changes are because they're nearing a solution. They're so damned pleased with themselves. Bob looks like a guy who has spent twenty years working on something everyone said wouldn't work, but now he's close to vindication and suddenly others are sitting up and taking notice and having to apologise to him for ever doubting him.
And the Old Man, save for the occasional sly nudge and innocent inquiry as to how I'm getting on with my current workload, hasn't said a damn thing.
I think I'm cracking up. This can't actually be happening.
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