my client is a no-show, lucky you you get a post… and i still have enough work this week that i’m not worried :)
six years ago on january twenty second of this coming year i got into a car accident. i had just spent the weekend patrolling at osler bluff ski club and was just delighted with my new ski patrol versus my old one.
my boyfriend and i were discussing moving in with each other (which we did in fact subsequently do… and then undo) and our great love for each other along with our hope that we could keep it that way.
i had just been promoted and was finally starting to get the hang of my new job (promoted, might i add, over forty eight other applicants ALL of whom had worked for the company longer than i had.)
financially i had finally gotten myself to a place where i was spending less than i made AND my car was all fixed after a short period of unemployment caused me to not fix a few things.
i had been off the cigarettes for more than a year and was believing that i might stay off (which i have) and had been working out enough that i had muscles and a nice body again at last. [amazing what a boost of energy NOT smoking gave me.]
in fact, i had just (three days earlier in fact) finally paid the balance on my credit card. a balance which had crept up and up since i moved to toronto and just hadn’t quite managed to get itself paid off.
look, look i danced to myself, i finally don’t owe anyone anything and i have a nice life and a great job and a fantastic guy and wheee go me!
i get in a car accident.
a little, tiny, inconsequential even, fender bender. the kind that does all of six hundred dollars damage to one’s car IF they bother to replace the slightly scratched bumper.
the kind of accident that one effectively pays NO attention to. and then… it crept.
little things started to hurt more and more and physical activity got harder and harder and suddenly, six months later, there i am fat and broken and hopeless thinking that i’ll never get well. physios are giving up on me and life is just not going well.
eventually i meet my teacher and realise that being strapped to a desk is going to render it nearly impossible for me to heal and i quit my job. nobody tells me that i’m entitled to go on disability. nope, nor do they tell me that i might have been eligible for income replacement.
so i go it alone… or more accurately i go it alone with my boyfriend’s consent and understanding and willingness to help.
six months we think, it can’t take more than that.
yeah. cut to a year later, i’m still broken, he and i have split up due to the stress and i’m living in a tiny little apartment and trying to support myself through teacher training while cleaning houses. (i can’t ever work a real desk job again unless i have freedom to get up and move around constantly… otherwise? seized up sass.) [just in case you wonder why i didn’t try to get my cushy desk job back in the meantime, it involved being strapped to a phone without a wireless headset.]
cut to another year later, i’m finished teacher training but still cleaning houses (and then i became the super of my building as well but that’s another story entirely) and wondering where the work is. turns out there’s a bit of a glut of baby pilates teachers in these here parts and there isn’t much.
i get a client here and a couple of group classes there but really not so much of anything and the little credit card that could ends up maxed out all to shit.
cut to now. i’m working an average of twenty to twenty-five teaching hours a week (which is about a thirty-five/forty hour week in terms of time driving and calling and waiting and… or about fifty in terms of start and finish times on the days that i work) and am slowly approaching my maximum cut-off of thirty hours a week (though at that point i will cut the schedule some so i have some earlier evenings back.)
i’ve fixed most of the shit that’s wrong with my car after five years of poverty based neglect [crap i have to call mr. law and see him about those upper engine mounts…] and boy does it drive better. like it did when i met it even. i mean like wicked fun to corner with again! not as fun as it could be though, i think i’ll get some tires next time i have a spare four hundred bucks. (like november cause i like to get new tires just before winter hits.)
i’ve bought clothing that isn’t from nineteen niney eight or for work or used!
and shoes! and cds!
i can eat out whenever i like!
and here’s the kicker. the other day i *deep breath* paid off my credit card.
due to holy terror i promptly ran out and spent some money on clothing and a CD and then i went and dropped three hundred and sixty bucks at the vet (mouse’s kidneys are fine for those of you that were wondering and the vet is delighted with their healthfulness) and just now made an appointment with the mechanic. i then, of course, promptly dumped a bunch more payment on the card…
but see? i paid off my credit card.
i can’t decide if i want to dance with glee or hide my ass in a dark corner somewhere and never come out so the universe can’t kick me again!
i’m sort of walking around staring at the sky and wondering where the toilet seat is going to come from (sorry, if you’ve never seen dead like me suffice to say that the main character is a reaper and is rendered dead by a flying toilet seat from a crashing piece of a space station. such a funny show… but i digress.)
i really am scared shitless, how ridiculous is that?