I am most anxious in the morning.

This is when the weight of all of the things I have to do press against me hardest.

By evening, I've presumably either done the most important things or punted them and I can usually forgive myself for winding down.

That doesn't mean I feel I've done enough. I rarely feel as though I've done enough. It's a flaw. I know people that consider calling their Dad on Father's Day constitutes a full day of effort, and others that feel beating a video game is a grand achievement.

I have been both of those people in the past.

It's eight o'clock in the evening now and I'm almost at peace. Penny gets home in half an hour, so I'll go downstairs to the kitchen and toss dinner together shortly. Salmon with ginger sauce. Broccoli, steamed, with ginger-lemon-rice-wine.

I cook all the meals nowadays. I cannot remember the last time Penny cooked. If I am being honest, I do eighty percent of the work around the house.

We met six and a half years ago, at the end of 2019. She didn't cook much then either, but it's fair to say she cooks less now. She takes it for granted that I care for her. She has the worse life, she tells me.

My mom has Alzheimer's and my job sucks. We are constantly understaffed. The kids at the library are all over me. It's loud. My director does not support me or anyone else. I feel like I am on my own most of the time.

So she feels entitled to it.

I am on my own too. We are together, and support each other, and love one another, but at home I am the worker and she is other things.

The Relaxer.

The Talker.

The Complainer.

Sometimes I feel that she is so big in her own head that she crowds out any space for my own thoughts and person.

I love her but I often dread her coming home for this reason. I have enjoyed, for the past couple of hours, between the time when work ended and the time when she comes home, being in my own head, having my own thoughts and space, and feeling understood, even if it's only myself that understands me.

Today I finally logged into my heath care portal to look at my MRI results.

My left shoulder is a problem. It started coming out of socket a few months ago. It used to pop out semi regularly in college but then I started lifting weights and the buildup of muscle helped to keep everything in place.

But now I'm 50 and a lifetime of working out and general use and abuse has created enough wear to return me to the problems I had in my twenties.

It makes sense. I return down the upward spiral as I age.

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow with the shoulder orthopedic surgeon to discuss options.

It's going to be surgery, though, and I will agree to it. The MRI showed all sorts of bad things in there. Cysts, nerve compression and degeneration, osteoarthritis. There will be scoping. There may be other things. I am trying not to think about it but of course that just leads me to thinking about it more.

Four to six weeks in a sling.

My first thought: How will I continue to lift?

My second thought: How will I continue to type?

My third thought: Oh who gives a shit.

Penny will be home soon and will need emotional support and my thoughts will disappear. I will not bring up my shoulder at all until after the appointment tomorrow, when things are more settled, after I have the clear recommendation from the doctor.

Once Penny is home, I cease to exist internally, for all intents and purposes.

I becomes we becomes her.