It was terribly hot over the weekend. Nevertheless, on Saturday morning my father-in-law and I set out to do a little fishing. Not much luck, but just enough to keep us in the boat until 11:00 am or so, by which time it had reached a sunny, windless 90 degrees. I could tell that my goose was getting cooked. By 9:30 or so, I was feeling pretty tippy. When we got to the landing, I couldn't walk, so Les had to fetch the car. While he was gone, I peed in my shorts.
Instead of pulling the boat onto the trailer from the dock, I got in the water, and pulled myself along the dock toward the shore, attempting to appear as though I was assisting in the get-out process, when, in fact, I was merely trying to move under my own power. I couldn't even get to the winch, so Les winched the boat onto the trailer. After he pulled the boat up on shore, I managed to buckle one of the transom straps, and then lurched my way up to the car, still dripping wet. There was an old guy at the landing watching the whole thing.
Les is an awfully nice father-in-law, and a stand-up guy in generaly. I wonder what the hell he must have been thinking as we drove back to the house. After stumbling past my mother-in-law and sister-in-law to the shower for a cool soak, I bounced back pretty quickly. That must have helped.
Last night, I talked about the incident with Caryn. I said, You know, if you ever feel like it, you have my permission to freak out. You have equal freaking out rights. She thanked me and said, basically, I don't care about your body, I love you for your mind. So I hope I can hang onto that.
On a completely unrelated topic, this morning, I wasted an hour trying to determine whether I was suffering from a gallbladder problem (gas, bloating, abdominal pain: yep, gallstones). But Dr. M. is out until tomorrow.