The Fluffbucket Diaries

Following the White Sox and the Padres with equal intensity this season is going to kill me.

Advil Dual Action is my new best friend. Between that and a nap late this morning, the second-shot achiness dissipated enough to let me run a few errands. Still sluggish this early evening, though.

At first, I couldn’t decide whether my shoulder, neck, and lower back discomfort yesterday were related to my second COVID-19 vaccination shot that morning or a Pilates class the day before. I was pretty sure the headache and midday queasiness were related to the second shot.

This morning, the pain in those locations has only worsened, along with the headache. Also hurting: my pectoral muscles (including my armpits), my knuckles, and my eyeballs. The discomfort is almost symmetrical, distributed nearly evenly between both sides of my body. And I woke up at one point overnight feeling slightly winded and out of breath, like I had just gained back all the weight I lost this year.

On top of all that, I really don’t feel like getting out of bed, though lying down — either on my back or side — hurts like hell.

This is all definitely not Pilates-related. It’s like having the flu and a hangover at the same time. Or a hangover without the fun the night before.

I understand this means my immune system is working to build up its defenses against COVID. I’m all for that. But man, I don’t think I’ve ever had a reaction to any vaccine like this.

I’m 55 years old and really should not be this annoyed that I didn’t get a sticker with my second COVID-19 vaccination shot.

Discovered an old friend from my North Carolina days unfriended me on Facebook, and I’m not sure why. Sent her a friend request this morning, then canceled it.

Some connections are seasonal, I’ve learned over the years; maybe this was one of them. And I’m actually good — relieved, in some cases — with that.

Still applies to theology in general these days. For me, anyway.

Prince died 5 years ago today. Doesn’t feel like that long ago.

That morning, I was listening to WXRT on the way to the office. By the time I got there, Lin Brehmer — the morning deejay at the time who, with his colleague Terri Hemmert, is a national treasure — was waxing poetic about Prince’s passing. The somber tone was broken with the riff of a church organ.

Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life

Electric word life
It means forever and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you
There’s something else
The after world

The opening lines of “Let’s Go Crazy” left me weeping in a Naperville parking lot. I turned up my stereo as loud as it would go.

So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
You know the one, Dr. Everything’ll Be Alright
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left
Ask him how much of your mind, baby

‘Cause in this life
Things are much harder than in the after world
In this life
You’re on your own

And if the elevator tries to bring you down
Go crazy, punch a higher floor

Five years later, Prince’s hometown is dealing with more gut punches beyond the loss of a favorite son. The world has been torn apart and spliced together in the past 5 years, and it’s changed a lot, it seems. Or maybe it hasn’t, and we’re just seeing the world for what it is a lot more clearly – and maybe that’s an even worse thing.

I’m in my mid-50s, when I thought I’d be done being disillusioned. Maybe it’s good that I let hope spring eternal about a lot of stuff, like human nature and – especially – faith. But how many times can that hope crash and burn in my eyes until I’m done with such things?

We’re all excited
But we don’t know why
Maybe it’s ‘cause
We’re all gonna die

And when we do (When we do)
What’s it all for (What’s it all for)
You better live now
Before the grim reaper come knocking on your door

Maybe it’s not terribly orthodox theology, but I don’t care. It’s become theology I can live with right now. I hope Prince and I will share an afterlife where I can thank him for that.

Mood – off and on over the past 30 years, I think.

Remember abdominal cramping? I do.

The chronic pain I’ve experienced in recent years has subsided considerably over the past few months. I chalk it up to the habits I’ve learned through physical therapy (deep breathing, stretches) and especially the weight loss.

But the pain has returned in recent days; it’s clearly stress-related. My physical therapist said last fall that just as some people clench shoulder muscles while tense, others tighten their abdominal muscles – or in my case, my pelvic floor – under duress. I was convinced of this after looking back on the past few years, and the past week or so has further convinced me.

Just knowing doesn’t make the pain go away; the deep breathing and stretches (and Extra Strength Tylenol, “rapid release” variety) do. But understanding where the pain is coming from makes a world of difference with my peace of mind. Grateful for medical professionals like my urogynecologist and physical therapist who pointed me in the right direction.

Sometimes I miss the dinosaur dance parties.

Having grown up within spitting distance of the San Diego Zoo, I’ve always been a zoo snob. But I’ve grown fond of the relatively more modest Brookfield Zoo west of Chicago, which still manages to have plenty to see despite closing numerous indoor exhibits to visitors.

We spent Sunday afternoon at the zoo, which — like several local museums — had timed admissions. It still seemed a wee bit more crowded than we had expected, but it wasn’t overwhelming. F was almost giddy to be out, and that made the visit worth it.

It’s only Monday, and I’m already completely fried by work, so I’ll cut to the chase.

I managed to drop 2 pounds and end up at 249.8, which is my first time in forever under 250 pounds. Clothes are fitting better, and I was able to walk maybe 2 miles during a zoo visit with family that didn’t leave me with severe back pain and winded. (I still needed to sit down with some pain, but I was far less weary than I used to be.)

Now if only the weight loss would be noticeable to people I haven’t seen in months, that’d be great. That hasn’t been the case in recent weeks; I’m guessing that when you’re as large as I am, a 33-pound loss doesn’t look like much. It’s disappointing when it’s not obvious, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pull the plug on this.

I should be happier than I am at how much weight I’ve dropped. Right now, I’m too exhausted to celebrate much of anything.

My biggest worry now is that recent work-related stress, non-work stress, and work-related loss of sleep will throw a wrench into the weight loss process. Both stress and lack of sleep, as I’ve mentioned in passing repeatedly in this space, can complicate things.

I will not use this or any other public space to talk about my work, except to say that I’m exceedingly happy to be past the point in my life (when I was in my 20s and 30s and early 40s) where my identity was wrapped tightly in my career. I look at the ambitious younger folk at the office and thank God I’ve left that drive behind.

My health is far more important now than my job, whatever it is, will ever be. And I am still learning to manage the stress that accompanies what I do now for a living. Prioritizing my health and the rest of my life will help that.

Was up until 2 a.m. with a couple of work projects, and now I’m starting the work week with a headache and in a sluggish daze. Probably a good thing that I left my Fitbit charging when I finally went to bed, so now it can’t nag me with a poor sleep score.

Thank God for morning White Sox baseball on Patriot Day in Boston. I need Jason Benetti and Steve Stone in the background to soothe my frazzled, weary nerves.

New neighbors have moved into the old nest outside our front door.

Want more advice? Go here.

Quick update, because it’s 10:40 p.m. Central time as I write this, and I’m already more than a day late in my reporting: I’m down 0.4 pound to 251.8 pounds, or 31.2 pounds since I started all this in January.

I’m posting a weight loss update on a Tuesday, rather than the usual Monday, because I was feeling bloated and heavy yesterday. My initial weigh-in yesterday confirmed this. I could have just logged a gain and moved on with my life, I know. But I was feeling marginally better today, and I ended up down very slightly.

So, yeah, I cheated a little to log another loss, however slight.

Still, I’m making progress. My wedding ring slipped off overnight the other day, and I had to use a backup ring that was more secure. My face looks slightly less puffy these days. And I was able to walk around a museum over the weekend without back spasms.

Pounds aren’t the only measure of success.

This is pretty much why I hunt Pokemon and breed cartoon dragons in my spare time.

The cat would like to know why Shane Bieber has given up such a lucrative pop music career to fling baseballs at people.

Not that it’s anybody’s business but God’s, but it dawned on me that one could ask: Why do you opt to view Mass from home on Sundays rather than attend in person, but you’re okay with going into restaurants, a Pilates studio, and even a museum occasionally?

I’ve thought about this a lot. And I don’t emerge from this guilt-free. I get that it is incongruous to be unwilling to go to church yet be willing to go out to these other relatively less important places. The possibility of infection is only a small part of why we remain home Sunday mornings.

The truth is, if it was just me, I’d likely be more inclined to go to Mass. (I haven’t received the Eucharist since my November retreat. And it kills me to think about it.) But I have to consider my daughter, who is preparing for confirmation and reception of Communion in the Roman Catholic Church.

My Episcopal and Anglican friends, having been part of F’s First Communion celebration at our former Episcopal parish a couple of years ago, would be horrified and indignant that our Roman parish’s pastor decided F would have to wait and prepare another 2 years to begin receiving the Eucharist again. But that is what we have agreed to do. F agreed to go through 2 years of CCD – asking to do this first year remotely, rather than in person – rather than try to rush the process by going through, say, a year of RCIA with older people or even periodic meetings with the pastor. Our pastor gave F those options, and she opted for the 2-year deal.

But, my Episcopal and Anglican friends would insist, our former parish was “Catholic,” and the longtime rector there taught that the Episcopal Church is on equal footing with Rome insofar as the sacraments go. This teaching helped me feel better about being at the Episcopal parish, where I was very happy for a number of years, because I knew in my heart of hearts that I was Catholic, and this place – back then, before that rector retired – was in many ways more “Catholic” than a lot of Roman parishes I know. (This was before my husband’s annulment gave me the opportunity to return to Rome, which is a subject for a future post.)

Despite that rector’s contention, however, and the informal agreement of many Roman Catholic clergy with that idea, this is not what the Church – that is to say, Rome – officially teaches. And we are part of Rome now.

F and I had attended Mass at a couple of different Roman parishes since leaving our old Episcopal parish, and F dutifully would join the Communion line, arms crossed, to receive a blessing. There were several times when eucharistic ministers didn’t know what to do with a tween who wasn’t receiving; confusing scenarios would ensue, and they became increasingly awkward. When the pandemic dispensations came down that allowed us not to worry about our Sunday Mass obligation, I was relieved that F didn’t have to go through such awkwardness for a while.

After churches shut down, I set up our own home liturgy each week, based on the Sunday rubrics – the Sunday readings and many of the Mass prayers, up to the Eucharistic celebration, obviously – and wrapping up with our own intercessions and the prayer of Spiritual Communion, plus the Hail Holy Queen and prayer to St. Michael the Archangel. We continued with this even after we returned to in-person Mass for a bit.

When we started going back to Mass after churches reopened, things became even more awkward; the kabuki-like processes involving hand sanitizer and masks complicated things, and both priests and eucharistic ministers became even more befuddled by a non-receiving kid. After several Sundays of this, I finally decided we would remain at home on Sundays. F seemed relieved.

Nowadays, we pray through our home liturgy together before CCD; after CCD, we usually view the Sunday Mass from Holy Name Cathedral. At the very least, this gets F acclimated to the words and routine of the Sunday liturgy without either the distractions that come with in-person worship or the anxiety that comes with awkward Communion line situations.

It can be laborious sometimes, putting together the home liturgy, but reading and praying through the process has been an enlightening and fruitful experience for me. I’m grateful for it, and F seems to appreciate the intimacy of praying through it together as well.

So, no, we’re not attending Sunday Mass these days. The pandemic dispensations remain, so we are okay as far as the Church is concerned. And until the dispensations are lifted, I’m going to forge ahead this way with my daughter.

I can never decide how I feel about local sports references being inserted into the Sunday Mass from Holy Name Cathedral. But this time, I approve of the assisting priest’s White Sox mask.

The traffic from here is, in fact, far worse than I remember.

Deleted the pottymouthed post from a couple of days ago. There are more pleasant ways to announce that I started subscribing to MLB.tv streaming video in a fit of pique over a lousy day.

This is what conversations with my child amount to these days.