I’ve written a few times about taking Ketamine treatments for anxiety and depression. I had my last one last Wednesday.

I am so grateful for how well this worked for me. I took 6 trips in all, but they weren’t the only trips I was taking.

In between ketamine trips, I took two trips with my friend, Lizzie. We spent a weekend in Chicago, then the following weekend, we stayed in a cabin in the mountains with our husbands.

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Maybe some of you remember that a few months ago I fell in all, hole and screwed up my knee?

Well, last weekend we visited Tennessee to celebrate my birthday with our mountain friends. We were there about an hour before I re-injured my knee.

I didn’t fall in a hole this time.

However, I was taking a picture. Again.

In early January, when I injured myself, I was taking a picture.

This time?

I stood on a wall that wraps around a our friend’s newly built patio. I stood on a wall that was about 14 inches tall and took a picture. My knee had been feeling better. Maybe, it even felt back to normal because I kind of forgot the injury was an issue.

Anyway, I stepped off that wall, onto my injured leg, my knee immediately said “Oh fuck you so much”, buckled, and I fell.

This was over a week ago. My knee is still pretty fucking sore and swollen, but I can at least walk on it. I didn’t have to go back to crutches, but ice packs are a regular thing again.

Everyone, except me, has agreed that I am no longer allowed to take pictures of any kind.

When I wrote about my original injury, I included the picture I took moments before disaster struck. I’m not doing so this time because it’s my friend’s house and I respect their privacy. Instead, I will include a picture of something we see whenever we visit.

There’s this abandoned looking building about 20 minutes away from their mountain. There is always a creepy looking mannequin in the upper window.

Now? There are two. Double creepy. I love it.

I didn’t hurt myself taking this picture.

The weekend was amazing.

Partially, because I had to be waited on.

I had handmade and thoughtful gifts waiting for me and a pinata,  So much good food. I am loved and life is good.

Randy put together a video of family and friends that made me both laugh and sob. I laughed because I know a lot of funny people. I sobbed because I was overwhelmed by all the love.

At the video’s very end? Spike.

Randy bought a Cameo of James Marsters wishing me a happy birthday as Spike.

Buffy is the show I watch when I am scared or tired or sick. Buffy is what I watch when I need comfort. Spike is my favorite. He sang Happy Birthday to me.

Randy has already discovered that he can quickly win a little tiff by saying “Spike!”

I mean, it will work for a while, but the motherfucker better not get too used to it.

I have to give him a break. The whole thing spawned my most recent viewing of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It’s not that bad. I started with season 2. I’m already on season 4 and I’m thinking about incorporating Angel and swapping episodes all the way through. I’ve tried this before and it always fell apart.

But I’m older now. More disciplined. I can do this.

In 1978, when I was 15 years old, I was introduced to my high school boyfriend’s aunt and uncle for the first time.

It was summer. I wore shorts and a tube top with an open shirt over the tube top. I remember it well. They had just arrived and we were walking from his house. We met midway through the garage. 

One side of my tube top had rolled down. I met his aunt and uncle with one of my boobies exposed.

I remember that sometimes and I always cringe. Always.

Next month, I’m going to be 60. His aunt and uncle were kinda old then. I’m sure they’ve been dead for years.

I’m cringing over dead people. 

I discussed this with a random person on social media.

Random Person on Social Media: These things have us muttering “oh god”

Me: I usually start with “no no no no no no”. As if I can will away something that happened over forty years ago. 

RPOSM: Oh, I’ll give it a shot. Does it work? 

Me: Oh god no. Nothing works.

Of course it doesn’t work. It’s not supposed to work. This is the way of my people.

We cringe and cringe long after the events are over and the people involved are dead.

This is what I do.

This is what my mother does.

This is what my mother’s mother did.

I guess. I’m not entirely sure if my grandmother did or not. I have no memories of her obsessing over cringey things like my mother and I do. I’m just saying, if I had to guess, it would be my mother’s mother for sure.

My dad’s mom wasn’t the cringing type. Not really. She was more…I don’t know, I guess she was more drunk. Yeah, That’s it. She was drunk.

My dad’s mom was the worst grandma ever. She got sloppy drunk every day, then she would either yell or cry. She was also fond of whacking whatever grandchild was closest with a fly swatter. Super charming woman.

My other grandmother made really good fudge.

I have no idea what the point is. Other than, I guess one of the perks of being a truly horrible person, is you really don’t worry much about embarrassing moments? I guess?

For instance, I’m quite certain if my bad grandma had inadvertently exposed her boobies, she would have told the story many times.

• It would have been right there with the story about getting bit on her bare ass by a bat that got into their house. The story was, just as she was about to sit on the toilet, a bat swooped down and bit her on the ass.
• She also claimed to have a mouse that would walk to the middle of the living room at exactly noon every day, then turn around and go back in it’s mouse hole.

I mean, I truly doubt these things actually happened, pretty sure her decades long habits caused at least a little cognitive decline.

But I digress.

I’ve spent a lot of hours in my life replaying cringing incidents.

Like the underwear incident in Kindergarten (1968) or the spelling book incident (1973).  Or the time I sounded like the elephant man in a meeting because I was so anxious to speak in front of a room of people that I couldn’t catch my breath. (1987).

Okay, maybe this can be the last time I cringe over the boobie incident. I don’t even remember the names of the aunt and uncle. But I do remember the tube top was yellow.

I think his name might have been Walter. The uncle. Not the tube top.