Honeymoon ends; therapy

So sometime this morning, when I was writing the third of this week's last-minute essays, a curious thought popped into my head: "The honeymoon period is over." Of all the hackneyed adages in the world, that one speaks to me the most. It doesn't matter what I'm talking about, because it always seems to ring true -- rocky points in relationships, getting to the bottom of the Nutella jar, or getting passive-aggressively "released" from your job at the bookstore because you had a scheduling conflict and couldn't work the Harry Potter release party (f.u., Barnes & Noble and your still-overpriced-even-when-40%-off-with-the-member-discount hardcover bestsellers).

And no, I wasn't thinking of Heidi and Spencer's delicious/inevitable marriage collapse (wow, that's the first The Hills reference I've thrown in here; I am SO sorry), but more of the fact that I no longer feel like I'm on vacation. Not necessarily because I'm bored now that my pace of life has slowed down (my parents enjoyed taking us to rock museums, so you can only imagine how enthralling those cross-country road trips could be. Don't ask about the petrified forest), but because it finally occurs to me I'm in school. And I have assignments due. I've probably slept a combined total of twelve hours since Monday which means... a slight improvement from last semester. It's just confusing to feel like you're temporarily staying somewhere and then having to study on top of it, sort of like when we went to Austin in 5th grade and had a lot of fun then had to write a report about it. I just can't look at that rose quartz-encrusted rotunda the same way again.

Updates? Updates. I have spinal shock from the trauma, which means my nerve endings are still weird and that my thigh muscles are sore. Haven't turned into a hunchback yet, but I am slowly feeling my muscles loosening up (I can even put my legs straight out in front of me now without dying). And, I know this is super cheesy and maybe I should go write a Patch Adams-esque screenplay or something, but it feels really great to be improving. Rather, physical therapy feels great. So my idea of physical therapy -- a big room with ex-war veterans attempting to walk straight with the tearful encouragement of their physical trainers, football players stumbling off injuries, old ladies stretching -- turned out to be a little off. It's less physical, more... therapeutic. Therapeutic in the massage sense -- let me just say, ultrasound juice is amazing (menthol!) and, though I was initially scared at the physical therapist's announcement that she was going to "mobilize [my] spine," I realized this just meant a thirty-minute massage. The therapist has a French name, like many of the Afrikaners here do, is cute and blond and seems to also have a sweating immunity. So when I walk in to my appointments, the sweat pouring down my face and, if I'm lucky, chicken-mushroom pie crumbs on the front of my shirt (I really have to stop eating while I walk), I feel a bit I've-really-let-myself-go in comparison. But I'm not here to impress my doctor crush; I'm here to improve. Even if her freckles are adorable and her accent music to my ears. We're going on the Garden Route tour in less than a month (ooh, more like two weeks), the one where there will be baby cheetahs who want nothing more than to be petted. I think there's some hiking and rock climbing, as well, but as an invalid I think I'll abstain from rock climbing.

I still have a craving for chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and cream gravy. You know my address! (If not, please see Facebook profile; too lazy to type it out right now and besides, the steak would probably be cold by the time it arrived, anyway.) For some reason, though Cuban food seems to have found its niche here, and hamburgers and steaks are all over the place, the chicken fried steak hasn't yet caught on. Life can be so unfair.

South Africa fact 1: J.R.R. Tolkien was born in South Africa!