Impatient

I'm getting better post-op, I really am. I've been feeling well enough that, once equipped with a stool to sit on and a collapsible stand to set my music folder on, I've been able to sing in all five of the spring concerts given by the community choir I'm in.

But I'm still not allowed to do really useful things around the house. Like run the vacuum. Or sand the floor. Or use the lawnmower. I have nice people who will, from time to time, come round and do 1) and 3) for me. But I hate having to wait for that. It frustrates me to see the lawn go a week past the time it needs to be cut. It distresses me even more when I come home, as I did last evening, and find my yard has been scalped. Oh, I hope we're not headed for a hot spell, or those patches of grass are gone.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if my neighbor hasn't quite got the hang of adjusting the level of my lawnmower. Or that she doesn't understand that grass as high as mine should be cut at maximum height all over. At least she took the initiative and got it done, right?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I need to be grateful. And I am. Really.

But I can hardly wait for my six-week check-up a week from this coming Wednesday. That's when I can get cleared for regular activity. After that, I can get out there and do all this myself.