House arrest has taught me something I never needed to know: I have 147 hops to lend each day. When the morning sun rays stream through my window, my Hop Counter resets and I'm given a new allocation to work with.
I was never curious about this upper limit. But in a blip, Fate fractured my flimsy ankle and fitted me in a medical boot and armpit-crunching crutches that limit my mobility. I live alone, so every day is a series of the same question: "Is THIS worth the hops?"
Morning hops are cheaper than evening hops. I wake without pain and only remember I'm broken, when I lift my left leg and feel the weight of a boot holding me down. But morning means coffee, and trust me, I'd crawl on bended knee for that injection. So I open my wallet and spend-spend-spend.
Afternoon tends to offer nonsenses that need attending to. The kitchen counter that needs wiping. The silly sink that refuses to drain. The couch stain that needs to be cleaned. I swear, I read about self-cleaning fabrics years ago1, where are you my friend?
BigWater wants you to believe all-day hydration is key. Allegedly, it's good for your skin and your organs and all the cells in your body. But it means more peeing, and for me, that means spending my precious hops on visits to the bathroom.
Each trip costs fifteen or sixteen of my 147, and while these are essential, they annoy me. My face prickles at the thought of a Pee Hop. Can I escape this bear hug? Shall I submit to diapers again? I admit I considered this possibility, but then I'd need to spend extra hops disposing them.
The thought of carrying diapers drenched in my own decomposing urine disgusted me, which at least, reassures me…I'm not a monster…yet.
Night hops are the toughest to spend. As evening falls, my glutes and calves have literally worked their butts off, all day, hopping and holding me in place. Lending me into the air as I leap to the next stair. Keeping me stable in space as I scramble eggs while sitting on my roll-y office chair in the kitchen.
But every night, I make it to my bed, I remind myself that bones heal better than ligaments, and I've written more poetry in this boot than I did on two feet, and that is no coincidence. The Spirit of Art won’t be refused — no, it will not — even though we artists think we have agency.
Blip or no blip, the show must go on.
Pics, since we’re all friends here:
I’m getting good at breaking bones. Three years ago, I shared this snippet with you. Don’t expect another.
But you can expect the finale for Buttahbasted next week! Since May, I’ve dropped tracks from this written album and we’ve made it to the end. Stay tuned:
The science is pretty nifty. Tiny particles in the fabric use sunlight to create these cleaning molecules that break down stains into harmless stuff like air and water.
Proof my chemical engineering degree was not wasted.
I'm running out of hops to give