Two weeks of no exercise. Two weeks of not turning my head too quickly. Two weeks of staying close to home and not being too animated.
Two more weeks of fricking strolling. Oh, I'm sorry. The doctor didn't say that. For some reason he omitted the word "fricking."
So, poor me. I guess I'll just have to spend the next two weeks sipping cafe con leche at a local park, spending lazy afternoons lounging on the beach outside our door. Maybe some truffles when I get home each day to ease my suffering.
San Geraldo has been wonderful. "Slow down, Mitchell." "That's not a stroll, Mitchell." "You shouldn't be doing that, Mitchell."
I haven't even been taking down the trash. Every morning, as is his routine, San Geraldo scoops out the cats' litter box, drops the poop in a sandwich bag, and places the bag in our open-air laundry room (whose door into the kitchen, we tend to leave open during the day). I then toss that bag in with the trash and take it down.
Since I'm not supposed do things like haul bags of trash or lift heavy dumpster lids, if I forget to take down that little bag of poop, it bakes all day in the sunny laundry room... along with several bags of trash.
Tuesday morning, I came home after coffee and the house smelled like overcooked cat poop (which is even worse than uncooked cat poop). I've learned that two days above 37C (97F) is not the proper temperature for keeping poop fresh. So, I broke the rules and took out the trash (and the baked goods).
San Geraldo has given me permission to nag him. And he's promised he won't talk back.