Doing Something Important

Day 5 in Post-Old-Lady-Foot-Surgery World. I had planned to spend my time on the sofa accomplishing all kinds of Important Things: finishing off a review, devising syllabi, writing a book proposal, drafting two sample chapters for other book proposals, and most important, revising chapters of my Damn Jesus book.

Oh. Perhaps that last one needs a bit of explaining. See, I've been working on a book about images (visual, theological, literary) of Jesus in British popular and intellectual culture since 1850. The problem is, I've been working on this project since, well, it seems since 1850; certainly my sons have never known life without it, and as a result the entire family calls it the Damn Jesus book. Not that we have anything against Jesus. Not at all. Jesus is good.

Anyway, I planned this totally laid-back but completely productive on-the-sofa recovery period. But, to quote a line from Terry Pratchett's Night Watch, "A plan is what you have when you don't think." I forgot to factor into my brilliant plan one very important, uh, factor: Pain. I do have these really groovy pain-relieving drugs, but said drugs are, it must be admitted, more appropriate for watching Ghostbusters than for constructing brilliant and logical historical arguments that will convince committees made up of grumpy over-educated white men that they should promote me and pay me more. Leave out the drugs and one is left with, well, plain ol' pain.

And here again, I realize what a Bad Academic I am. A Good Academic would soldier on through the pain. I would like to think, I choose to think, I must think, that if I had to Do Something Important, if I had to, say, finish an article on which the future of a decent, affordable education for all residents of the state of Louisiana rested, or testify before Congress on the need for universal health care, or I dunno, geez, what vitally important thing could an historian of modern Britain actually do???

Which of course is the point. I love my job. But I made sure that my surgery did not conflict with the socially crucial part of it (i.e. the teaching part). And gritting my teeth and working through tears so that the few interested cultural and religious historians can read what I have to say about changes in the British image of Jesus. . . . umm, it ain't happenin'.

Instead, I've used up my few pain-free and lucid moments to write my Christmas cards, talk to my guys, read Terry Pratchett, and watch Doctor Who. But wait--those last two are British, and in fact not just British but Modern British. Eh voila, I've been working through the pain. Gosh. Someone ought to promote me.