My determination to be at my desk for 8am this morning has paid off – just. I’ve caught the 8am pips and Moira Stewart launching into the news. Welcome to another day on Planet Earth on Monday 14th December 2015.
I only just made it though. I wasn’t late up; on the contrary, I was downstairs making a pot of coffee at 6.30am. The culprit that almost caught me out was something I have to tolerate for a further 7 days at least. Surgical stockings. Caliper-like tubes of nylon that do NOT give at all.
I can only assume that the inventor of surgical stockings was a contortionist, and therefore had to give no consideration whatsoever as to how a normal human being just out of surgery could possibly manoeuvre and manage these horrendous yet compulsory straitjackets for legs.
It’s taken me a good 15 minutes to put on fresh surgical stockings this morning; to actually bend my poor patchwork stomach to reach my toes. I finally achieved the necessary lunge by lying on my back on the bed and gingerly raising my legs one at a time into the air. I then had to organise the toe bit. They are not like an ordinary sock, no, just to confound the wearer, they have an open toe, which might be marvellous in July, but in December is absolutely useless. So a little bit of stocking has to be pulled back over the toe ends and twisted to make a full sock, then a pair of thick tights has to be fitted over that twisted bit to make sure it stays twisted and in place to keep the toes warm (requiring alternate legs in the air again and me on my back). I was praying that the thick woolly tights would still be long enough to fit me since being washed at the weekend, as I could not face a repeat performance with another pair if not. I had already resigned myself to walking around all day with a “dropped crotch”, you know the one, when your tights aren’t quite long enough.
After the tights, I then needed to put on a pair of thermal socks, to get me through this chilly December day. I went for a HUGE brand new pair of mens’ fluffy socks, thinking that they’d be easier to wriggle into than my own. Again, “beetle on its back” position was required.
At this point I’m very glad that I’ve spent so much time pounding away on my cross trainer over recent months, and even more glad that I have kept up my yoga-style floor exercise regime, so that my muscles are fairly strong and flexible. Even so, I’m definitely NOT a contortionist.
When I finally managed to drag myself off the bed and into an upright position with much huffing and puffing, I felt like getting back into bed for a rest, rather than getting to work at my desk. Good job it’s only a short commute!
I had a theory that a loose knitted dress over woolly tights would be the best option as office wear for a few days, to avoid the waistline chafing of this patchwork of dressings and clips. I wasn’t particularly worried about the fact that I can’t wear a bra for a while, again for the chafing reasons, as I don’t have enough chest to require scaffolding anyway. I have to admit though that my usual work uniform of jeans and shirt and sweater may have been a better option. For a start I would not have had that battle on my back with the woolly tights, although I would still have required the surgical stockings and thermal socks. And I could quite easily have slouched in my office chair with my jeans button undone and the zip down couldn’t I?
I’m also thinking that I could have stumbled out of bed at 7.45 and trundled across the landing to my desk in my jimjams. And stayed in them all day. Along with my warm slippers. Because in reality, it makes not one jot of difference what I’m wearing, to do my job at my desk. Bit slovenly though isn’t it?
I could very easily have shouted my better half to give me a hand. I didn’t though. The only place that what I’m wearing to go to work in matters is in the space between my own ears. It really was a matter of pride that I managed to get properly dressed and organised to be at my desk by 8am today. And I did it.
(Please be aware that I will probably be crawling back under the duvet for a little nap by lunchtime, fully dressed, as I daren’t take off the tights and socks – they will be staying on indefinitely.)
Coincidentally, and ironically too, it would have been BKS Iyengar’s 97th birthday today – he’s the founder of the Iyengar style of yoga if you didn’t already know that. This tidbit of useless information was announced to me by Google when I finally managed to get myself together and comfortably sitting in front of my computer. I bet Mr Iyengar would have had no problem at all with surgical stockings.