After all these years of observing how oddly (by other people’s standards) my body reacts to things, and even after several years of understanding that a lot of that has to do with being autistic, I still hesitate to assert myself.<\/p>\n
Case in point: I went in to\u00a0my local clinic\u00a0<\/span>the other day to get a pneumonia shot from the nurse. The result was needlessly painful.<\/span><\/p>\n My doctor, at my last physical exam, had recommended three different shots: one for flu, one for whooping cough, and one for pneumonia. I have never had a flu shot, and I’m a bit anti-medication, but I acknowledged that all of these were a good idea. To my credit (knowing that I can have “strange” reactions), I told her that I’d like to have them done on different days, not all at once.<\/p>\n Over the past few weeks, I had gotten the first two, and this past week came the appointment to get the third. In the event, the nurse asked me if I cared which arm she used. I said no, that I’m right-handed, but I didn’t really care. Wrong! I should have told her to use my left arm. She asserted that “this shot, unlike some others, doesn’t leave any soreness.” Right. And I’m not autistic.<\/p>\n Two days later, my arm was so sore I could not raise my hand above waist level. Sore is an understatement. I was in intense pain. I felt like I had been on the losing end of a barroom brawl. Fortunately, I did not plan to go skiing or do any other activities that required any great arm strength. Picking up hay to feed the horses was the most challenging activity I undertook (and that wasn’t easy).<\/p>\n As the pain lessened, I decided it was okay for me to go skiing, and I’m glad I did. In almost-blinding sunshine, I floated down all the black-diamond trails that Jiminy Peak has to offer (some of them more than once). As I pointed my skis down the hill and let gravity do its thing, I kept in touch with the mountain by yelling at myself (mentally) to “use the entire ski” — if I get lazy, I have a tendency to lean back, instead of aggressively putting my weight on the full length of the ski.<\/p>\n Addiction is a powerful thing. My skiing pleasure center (there is such a thing, right?) was enjoying the sensation of flying that my rapid descent created. There were very few other skiers on the black trails, so I didn’t have to dodge bodies very much. As I passed other skiers, I took a small amount of pleasure in noting that I was not being passed by too many. Then, in one of my last runs (on\u00a0Jericho, the only double-diamond run on the mountain), I took special pleasure in thinking that I was probably skiing it as fast as I ever had. I had left the top at about the same time as another skier — a guy in a red jacket. As I got to the halfway point in my descent (not pausing for a moment, focusing on every turn) I looked up to see where he was. He was already at the bottom. Wow! Not sure if I want to ever go that fast. But…<\/p>\n On the next run, my pleasure center was crying for more. My legs, on the other hand, were crying for relief. I had to call on my prefrontal cortex to intercede. The pleasure center was overruled, and I made that my last run. What a glorious day of Spring skiing!<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" After all these years of observing how oddly (by other people’s standards) my body reacts to things, and even after several years of understanding that a lot of that has to do with being autistic, I still hesitate to assert myself. Case in point: I went in to\u00a0my local clinic\u00a0the other day to get a … <\/p>\n