Minimum Wage

20 08 2015

An Hour of Nyan Cat. Yay!!!
If you watch that, it is exactly how long I can do anything before wanting to die.

I figured this out via the best method I know how: brutal, raw, entirely unplanned experimentation.

I am incapable (without significant federal funding) of designing a double blind study that would give me results I could allow my peers to review & publish in a journal. This is because I am a ginger & a dunderhead. I must plow forth, bastard sword in hand, screaming “Bastards! Bastards all!” Which is super awkward at Latin Mass, which is how I discovered The Hour Rule.

You people have heard of spoons by now. Everybody with fibro knows about spoons. Even normies have appropriated spoons to deal with their fragile egos or whatnot. Now that normies have claimed spoons, hurties need a new thing. My thing is minimum wage.

Normies have unlimited earning potential. They get a salary plus commission plus a signing bonus, a Christmas bonus, & a bonus for being pretty & special & lithe & majestic, a bonus for that twinkle in their clear eyes, & paid time off.

Fibroblobs & other chronically ill folk get minimum wage. Don’t get me wrong; we’re grateful for it. But we have to think of where every dollar of it goes. We are living hand to mouth. There are no savings. We must budget.

Every time I spend an hour doing anything, I have to earn it back with rest, good nutrition, fantastic weather, & the grace of God.

“What does this have to do with Latin Mass & your experiment, you meandering twit?” you scream at your screen. Well, I usually go to Sunday high mass, which I think is meant to be an hour & a half, but is sometimes two, which is fine because I enjoy it. Or rather theoretically it is fine.

After comes coffee hour & that’s about an hour of socialization & hugging, followed by around an hour to drive back. When I am not doing well, High Mass is impossible. I cannot safely navigate it.

So I experimented with Latin vigil mass on Saturday, which I also love. There is no singing, which I miss, but there is still incense & there is a cantor, & sometimes there’s this amazing choral group called LA Schola. And it’s in Latin, which is a bonus except I learned Classical Latin & everybody else seems to know Italianate Latin. 

Latin mass has less people and is exactly an hour long, maybe even a little shorter. And I sailed. I could’ve done a little dance after. It was magnificent.

I then started timing chunks at work. I have been building walk breaks into my work ever since I was diagnosed (2006), but after the Latin mass experiment, I really paid attention to when those breaks need to occur before I get bad. You guessed it; it’s hourly.

Thinking back, this makes sense, but I was only using anecdotal evidence or “case studies” before…of my own experiences. I’ve avoided movies in the theatre, even though I have always loved going to the cinema, for about a decade. If there was something I absolutely had to see on the big screen (Lord of the Rings, natch), I would plan in advance to take the next day off work so I could recover. It’s that bad. But duh because hello those movies are three hours a pop!

I need to be able to do a different thing every hour. If I’m sitting, I need to walk. If I’m walking, I need to sit. If I’m lying, I need to rise. Yes, sleep is hard.

So I will be carefully spending my minimum wage of energy in an hourly fashion from now on so that all of you may get the very best of me, instead of the achy, lurpy, cranky me whose inner monologue is kill me now kill me now kill me now on repeat.

If I get up & leave, it’s not because I don’t enjoy you. It’s because I am about to turn into a pumpkin. Or the Hulk. Possibly Pumpkin Hulk, which I will draw for you some day.