It’s nice to forget I have a chronic illness until after I’ve already agreed to join a friend at a museum, and we realize I’ve already exceeded my days’ activity quota, and therefore the day will not end well, which could mean anything from tremors and other nasty Parkinson’s sensations all the way up to barely keeping one’s head from flopping into and lolling among the potatoes, cream and bits of clam that comprise my chowder and that are officially designated for the mouth alone. All because I did THREE WHOLE THINGS today already- a trip to Whole Foods, a mere 12 minute walk from home; a workout on the stationary bike in the interest of keeping my Parkinson’s from progressing, and….I’m not sure if I should count a lengthy catch-up call with a friend as number three. But that makes the museum outing number four! Can I? Am I …..brave enough? Strong enough?

I learned my activity limits not long after diagnosis and decided that neither body nor mind could handle more than two activities per day, three on special occasions like doctor’s appointments. But what counts as an activity anyway? I prefer to have some flexibility around this rule. No matter how much you grill me: “It’s my disease and I’ll lie if I want to, lie if I want to, lie if I want to, You would lie too if it happened to you.” (To the tune of “It’s My Party” by Leslie Gore and you can “Okay Boomer” all you want, see if I give a shit.)

Even the Beatles weighed in on fatigue, to wit:

I’m so tired
I haven’t slept a wink
I’m so tired
My mind is on the blink
I wonder, should I get up and fix myself a drink?
No, no, no

So George Harrison. Drink all you want. It’s not as if you have to drive yourself to your next gig. You too, Ringo! A vodka tonic for the drummer over there. The third one, the one the girls call “cute,”, how about a pink lady for the man. (I have no idea what that is). The serious one thinks himself above it all. Let him get his own goddamn drink.

You civilians don’t know how easy you have it. It’s a mere morning’s jaunt to the market but I often feel like Sysiphus pushing his rock up the hill or, in my case, several tubs of chocolate almond non-dairy dessert getting squished at the bottom of the battered shopping cart. And after this, it’s the museum. Am I kidding myself? I most certainly am. How dare I pretend to be a normal person, someone who could probably shoehorn a day at the beach into the schedule.

You see, I am only allowed 3 activities per day, and one of those must fall into the “special” category, defined as….well, I’m still working on that. And who is this “allower”anyway? Hint: a mature woman with a chronic illness and strong opinions. Anyway, my categories are none of your business. Okay, I’ll share one with you, which is that there exists a document titled “Andi’s Twelve Rules of Parkinson’s” which I just made up six minutes ago BECAUSE I CAN. A dirty little secret among us ailing folk is that we are allowed to devise as many rules, regulations, standards, sub-standards, edicts and fiats as we wish. And the best part? Our doctors don’t care about our rules. They really don’t. Don’t believe me? Try and recite your list of daily activities (including sub-categories) to your neurologist and see how quickly after he presses that little button a nurse appears to take your vitals, even though she’s already performed that mandatory-by-law act upon your arrival. While she’s got you cuffed to the blood pressure machine, the doctor checks his investments on his phone. You do the math.

Never mind, I’ve done it for you. Forty winks comes out to 2400 winks in a healthy sleep cycle. Now get to bed!