My back went out again. Saying that one of your most important body parts just went out, like it was quickly going to grab a coffee or check the mail is probably one of the most misleading ways to describe something so utterly disheartening.
The list of things I can't do right now is long, and includes walking upright, sleeping, bending over to shave my legs and anything Gangnam Style.
Fortunately, shaving my legs won't be necessary. Possibly ever. In the space of two days, I've become what I've always feared most - an Old Maid.
(To be fair, I've also always feared becoming shipwrecked, naked in public, burned at the stake and a political Conservative. I have many fears, but becoming an Old Maid happened to occur first. Frankly, it could have easily been a toss up between shipwrecked and naked in public given that I live on an island and give increasingly fewer fucks about what I'm wearing. Luckily, there's still time.)
My back going out again is actually the most positive aspect of this whole sordid story. Even though it's bad, it's not as bad as it was the first time. I'm able to work, sit on a toilet long enough to get things done and I haven't fallen over yet. These are all vast improvements over the last time this happened. Clearly, months of going to the gym is helping my body cope a little better.
In fact, I'm still going to the gym. My stupidly hot personal trainer devised a new program for me that we can do while we wait for my spine to unclench.
It's painful and embarrassing to be surrounded by hard bodies pumping serious iron while I bust into a sweat just trying to lift a leg up and down, but the other day my trainer lifted up his t-shirt to his chest to show me some sort of surgical scar, and I swear to God my back very nearly healed itself in that instant.
It's true. I've developed a very sad and pitiful crush on my personal trainer, which is only in keeping with my Old Maid status. He's gorgeous, and so nice to me it nearly makes me cry. Granted, I'm paying him to be nice, but it's still alarming that I would fall for a guy simply because he's kind to me. Alarming, but not surprising.
A friend of mine asked if I would pay him to sleep with me too should that option arise, and the answer is OH MY GOD. FUCK YES. As an Old Maid, I have no shame. If I have to pay for a once in a lifetime opportunity such as that, it would be money well spent - the cat hoard will just have to go without name-brand food for a while.
Likely, it would take a lot of money however. Should I ever get the impression that that's an option, expect to see a link to my PayPal account on this site. Bitches better cough up.
Deviant fantasies about my personal trainer aside, it's the reality of my current love life, or what once passed for a love life, that have pushed me over the edge from spinster-curious to full-fledged vaginal cobwebs.
Alex is a father now. I'm not sure why that's still so surprising to me, since popping out a kid is usually the expected outcome following nine months of pregnancy. It's not like I thought she was just constipated.
I found out on Facebook. I didn't think he'd step out in the middle of the eight hour labour just to text me it was happening, but I was kind of curious whether I'd hear about it directly from him at any point. So far, still waiting.
There on his profile page, was the deliriously happy couple staring lovingly into each other's eyes over top what I could only determine to be an aggressively swaddled sun-dried tomato. It was the standard post-delivery hospital shot that's a requirement of giving birth in North America.
A few things stood out. First off, she had just been through eight hours worth of labour, and I can promise you, she looked so much better in that photo than I do right this minute. In fact, every photo I've ever seen of her on Facebook is stunning. (Yes, I like to snoop on occasion. Let's not judge.)
It's to the point where numerous people comment to congratulate Alex on how jaw-droppingly beautiful his girlfriend is. I wonder what the comments would have looked like if I had ever been his girlfriend. "Wow - way to go Alex! She's really...tall."
The second thing that stood out was how happy he looked. How happy they both looked.
I studied everything in that picture. His hand on her back. Her cheek against his. He'd been there with her and for her the entire time, and it showed. What is it about her (besides being beautiful) that could make a guy want to be there with her? That makes THAT guy want to be with her? Not just through labour, but every day before and after?
Thankfully, after a day spent pointlessly moping, I was sure I had the solution to ease my pain. A few hours scheduled with the firefighter.
The firefighter. A man I once described as the vagina whisperer. The only guy who could make me forget all the things I'm missing out on, mostly because he makes me forget my own name.
Only...after two hours of having him naked in my bed...I was still fully dressed.
He didn't kiss me. He didn't touch me. I touched him plenty, but he didn't touch me. Not even by accident. Not with any part of his entire body.
Sitting next to a stranger on a bus will get you more physical contact than he engaged in with me that entire encounter. I mean...do I have pieces left behind??
Right up until he had to leave, I was waiting for something to happen. Anything. A peck on the cheek? A high-five when he was all done?
Nothing.
It's not as though I'm a stranger to selfish douche bags. In fact, the firefighter was once a revelation simply because he wasn't a selfish douche bag. However, even the most selfish of losers in the sack has never taken great pains to make sure his arm doesn't accidentally brush against mine. Which is what he did. Several times.
A few explanations as to what might be happening:
- I'm the world's dumbest and therefore poorest prostitute.
- I'm one of India's Untouchables, and he's only just become religious. And Hindu.
- Pieces left behind.
- My weight gain disgusts him. He'd rather not look at me, let alone risk making it all jiggle.
- His wife has drafted a few new rules and boundaries, and nobody's shared these with me.
- He's a piece of shit, and I'm a fucking moron.
My friends often seem to think that I don't know that I deserve any better when it comes to men and relationships. They think I settle for scraps, because I don't know they're scraps.
The truth is, I know it. I know I deserve better. I know that what I accept in my life is pretty much laughable. I don't accept it because I don't know it's pathetic.
This however, is even more (or less) than I can put up with. Now that the scraps have even run out, it's Old Maid all the way.
Old Maids don't expect very much, so if they lose what little they have, it's no big deal. Old Maids are used to being entirely on their own, and not needing anybody else for anything. Old Maids are long past giving a single fuck.
I'm actually looking forward to the conversation I'm about to have as an Old Maid with the firefighter. After all, it's not like I'm the one with anything left to lose.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Curiosity Killed the Catty
I might be an awful person.
The other day, I was leaning on the CLOSE button in an elevator, pretending not to see the woman with the SUV Heavy Artillery Anti-Aircraft Assault Stroller and screaming progeny barrelling my way. The doors closed just in time, but the experience got me thinking.
No, I do not feel bad deliberately closing the elevator doors on Mommy and whatever was making that godawful piercing shriek - 30 seconds of not losing my mind in an elevator should not be too much to ask.
I also feel pretty good about going out of my way to park in Expectant Mother parking spots when grocery shopping or visiting Wal-Mart. First off, how the fuck does anybody know I'm not pregnant? Second of all, I've had sex before too, and never expected preferential parking afterward as a result. A parade perhaps, given that it might have been a while in between encounters, but not special parking.
(Clearly, I may be experiencing some misplaced anger toward pregnant people. Overall, I think I've handled Alex's impending baby-daddy status very well. Maybe not so much on the day he told me, but it had been a while since I'd thrown up for any reason, so barfing up breakfast immediately afterward wasn't a big deal. It's important to keep your stomach on its toes anyway - almost like a fire drill for the esophagus.)
Since then, I'm handling it so well, I've even gone on Facebook to see if there are any photos of the happy couple and impending...belly. Normally, I avoid looking at his photos for the same reasons most people avoid looking at car accidents, but I'm handling things very well, so I thought I might verify that this was really happening.
And it is.
Some say growing new life is miraculous. Particularly for her, who is clearly pregnant, but still appears less pregnant in a tight dress than I do. She seems to be one of those magical pregnant women whose boobs are bigger, belly is perfectly round, but the rest of her body remains size zero. I've been more dramatically constipated than this woman is pregnant. And yes, I just said pregnant five times in one paragraph, and I'm not changing it. She looks exultantly happy in every photo. Alex looks very proud.
More than one person has asked me what I'm going to do about this situation. Frankly, I was unaware that there was anything to be done. I had no part in this happening, I have no part in whatever happens now.
What I suppose I'm really being asked is whether I'm finally going to stop talking to him. This would seem the healthiest option...and yet...clearly more than one person doesn't know me very well.
The fact is, I'm curious. Curiosity can be a good thing, and it can also mean getting your head stuck in a hole or sitting in an ER with something in your ass that has no place ever being that close to a human colon. It's really only the outcome that determines whether curiosity is positive or negative.
Alex doesn't seem to think his life is about to change in any significant way. He still wants to know when I'm coming for a visit, as if he'll still have the luxury of time and energy to leave the house and lie about where he's going with a kid around.
When I suggested the logistics of us seeing each other again are probably about to become much more difficult to work around for at least the next 20 years, he didn't share the same concerns.
"This is me we're talking about, and I'll find a way to see you," was his exact response.
This is indeed, Alex we're talking about. Alex, who loves to play hockey and ski every weekend in the winter. Alex, who loves to golf and spend days and nights on the lake in the summer. Alex, who likes his house looking like a show home, and whose truck is so pristine it still has new car smell after four years. Alex, who is too embarrassed to ever buy toilet paper in public for fear the cashier will picture him on the toilet. Alex, who has had more sex than the entire Roman Empire. Alex, who despite his promiscuity, secretly has one of the most crippling obsessive-compulsive germ phobias I've ever seen. Alex, who once brought an entire bottle of bleach to the five-star hotel I was staying in because I said the room had a jacuzzi tub and I wanted to take a bath with him. Alex, who spent an hour scrubbing that bath tub until his hands were raw just so he could sit in it with me without having a panic attack. Alex, who is about to be introduced to life with a baby.
And so I'm curious as to how this all plays out. Partly because I'm an awful person, and partly because I'm not. I love him, I want him to be happy, and he always said he eventually wanted kids.
Eventually is here, and I'm excited for how much he is going to love that little yard ape. And if it turns out the kid has his eyes, I could even love it too.
Before I walk away from him, which I will do eventually, likely in slow motion with something exploding in the background and a wind-machine blowing my hair about fetchingly, I want to know what happens next.
I want to know Alex as a father. I want to know if his life really changes, and what he'll do if it does. I want to know whether he's suddenly OK with germs after the first diaper blow-out, or whether he burns his house down and bleaches the remaining soil.
Yeah - I might be an awful person.
The other day, I was leaning on the CLOSE button in an elevator, pretending not to see the woman with the SUV Heavy Artillery Anti-Aircraft Assault Stroller and screaming progeny barrelling my way. The doors closed just in time, but the experience got me thinking.
No, I do not feel bad deliberately closing the elevator doors on Mommy and whatever was making that godawful piercing shriek - 30 seconds of not losing my mind in an elevator should not be too much to ask.
I also feel pretty good about going out of my way to park in Expectant Mother parking spots when grocery shopping or visiting Wal-Mart. First off, how the fuck does anybody know I'm not pregnant? Second of all, I've had sex before too, and never expected preferential parking afterward as a result. A parade perhaps, given that it might have been a while in between encounters, but not special parking.
(Clearly, I may be experiencing some misplaced anger toward pregnant people. Overall, I think I've handled Alex's impending baby-daddy status very well. Maybe not so much on the day he told me, but it had been a while since I'd thrown up for any reason, so barfing up breakfast immediately afterward wasn't a big deal. It's important to keep your stomach on its toes anyway - almost like a fire drill for the esophagus.)
Since then, I'm handling it so well, I've even gone on Facebook to see if there are any photos of the happy couple and impending...belly. Normally, I avoid looking at his photos for the same reasons most people avoid looking at car accidents, but I'm handling things very well, so I thought I might verify that this was really happening.
And it is.
Some say growing new life is miraculous. Particularly for her, who is clearly pregnant, but still appears less pregnant in a tight dress than I do. She seems to be one of those magical pregnant women whose boobs are bigger, belly is perfectly round, but the rest of her body remains size zero. I've been more dramatically constipated than this woman is pregnant. And yes, I just said pregnant five times in one paragraph, and I'm not changing it. She looks exultantly happy in every photo. Alex looks very proud.
More than one person has asked me what I'm going to do about this situation. Frankly, I was unaware that there was anything to be done. I had no part in this happening, I have no part in whatever happens now.
What I suppose I'm really being asked is whether I'm finally going to stop talking to him. This would seem the healthiest option...and yet...clearly more than one person doesn't know me very well.
The fact is, I'm curious. Curiosity can be a good thing, and it can also mean getting your head stuck in a hole or sitting in an ER with something in your ass that has no place ever being that close to a human colon. It's really only the outcome that determines whether curiosity is positive or negative.
Alex doesn't seem to think his life is about to change in any significant way. He still wants to know when I'm coming for a visit, as if he'll still have the luxury of time and energy to leave the house and lie about where he's going with a kid around.
When I suggested the logistics of us seeing each other again are probably about to become much more difficult to work around for at least the next 20 years, he didn't share the same concerns.
"This is me we're talking about, and I'll find a way to see you," was his exact response.
This is indeed, Alex we're talking about. Alex, who loves to play hockey and ski every weekend in the winter. Alex, who loves to golf and spend days and nights on the lake in the summer. Alex, who likes his house looking like a show home, and whose truck is so pristine it still has new car smell after four years. Alex, who is too embarrassed to ever buy toilet paper in public for fear the cashier will picture him on the toilet. Alex, who has had more sex than the entire Roman Empire. Alex, who despite his promiscuity, secretly has one of the most crippling obsessive-compulsive germ phobias I've ever seen. Alex, who once brought an entire bottle of bleach to the five-star hotel I was staying in because I said the room had a jacuzzi tub and I wanted to take a bath with him. Alex, who spent an hour scrubbing that bath tub until his hands were raw just so he could sit in it with me without having a panic attack. Alex, who is about to be introduced to life with a baby.
And so I'm curious as to how this all plays out. Partly because I'm an awful person, and partly because I'm not. I love him, I want him to be happy, and he always said he eventually wanted kids.
Eventually is here, and I'm excited for how much he is going to love that little yard ape. And if it turns out the kid has his eyes, I could even love it too.
Before I walk away from him, which I will do eventually, likely in slow motion with something exploding in the background and a wind-machine blowing my hair about fetchingly, I want to know what happens next.
I want to know Alex as a father. I want to know if his life really changes, and what he'll do if it does. I want to know whether he's suddenly OK with germs after the first diaper blow-out, or whether he burns his house down and bleaches the remaining soil.
Yeah - I might be an awful person.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Turducken, maybe?
"You are not a turkey loaf."
In addition to everything else my new personal trainer puts up with, patiently having to explain to me that I have the same muscle and bone framework as every other human being, and that I'm not missing key components such as entire muscle groups, has got to be the most exasperating.
While it's true that I have muscle areas that are extremely difficult for me to isolate, this does not mean they don't exist. Me trying to explain my physiology by comparing myself to a boneless turkey roast didn't help my case any further, although to be fair, I said I was a roast and not a loaf. A loaf would be ridiculous.
After so many months through last winter of near immobility, a number of my muscles just don't fire normally. This can actually be great, because my trainer will then "show" me exactly what muscles are supposed to be contracting by putting my hand on his arm, leg, or back.
I don't care that my trainer is 21 years old, adorably puppy like and I'm neither of those things - this is delightful.
Even though my trainer has a girlfriend that he talks about often and sweetly, he and I are in a long-term committed relationship. Yes, I'm paying him a lot of money to be in this relationship, but me having to pay for a man over top of me so I can lay there and pant has always been kind of inevitable.
I see him for three hours a week, which is more than I see any of my friends. While it's not a sexual or romantic relationship, he knows when I'm having a bad day, haven't shaved my legs, and have left the house with mismatched socks. Basically, he's probably the closest person to me these days.
He is also arguably one of the best looking guys I've ever seen in real life, but it's hard to be attracted to him when he looks like that, and I end each of our "dates" looking like a spandex clad tsunami victim.
A month or so ago I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem. The problem being, my thyroid had quit this bitch. When a thyroid works over time, it's hard to keep weight on. When it refuses to do anything at all, it's a whole other world of misery.
Even while doing Weight Watchers, I was gaining three to four pounds a week for months on end. I'm sure the Weight Watchers corporation collectively heaved a sigh of relief when I gave up and stopped going to meetings, because I must have really been fucking up their numbers.
Since that diagnosis, I started seeing a Naturopath. She's devised a new diet and supplement regiment, and while it's very strict and low-calorie -- it's working. In one month, I'm down nine pounds. This is progress.
Five days a week, I'm in the gym. Three of those five days a week, I'm there once in the morning and once at night. Most of my sessions are cardio, except for the three hours my trainer spends a week trying to convince me I'm not a turkey loaf.
I can honestly say I've never worked harder at anything in my life. My days are focused on my eating schedule and going to the gym. That's it. Oh, and texting people. Texting has replaced my social life, which only makes sense, since it long ago replaced my sex life. My phone gets more action than I do, and I'm not just a little bit concerned it's contracted chlamydia.
The isolation factor in doing what I'm doing may actually be the most difficult part about it. Few people understand how important it is to me, and the sacrifices I'm willing to make. No, I won't go to brunch. No, I don't want to drink. No, I can't skip it just for a day. No, I don't want to go to Costco just to eat the samples.
With every pound lost, I feel a little bit more like me, which means I'm not so much fighting to get my health back, as I am fighting for my life.
And that has to be worth a few free samples at Costco.
In addition to everything else my new personal trainer puts up with, patiently having to explain to me that I have the same muscle and bone framework as every other human being, and that I'm not missing key components such as entire muscle groups, has got to be the most exasperating.
While it's true that I have muscle areas that are extremely difficult for me to isolate, this does not mean they don't exist. Me trying to explain my physiology by comparing myself to a boneless turkey roast didn't help my case any further, although to be fair, I said I was a roast and not a loaf. A loaf would be ridiculous.
After so many months through last winter of near immobility, a number of my muscles just don't fire normally. This can actually be great, because my trainer will then "show" me exactly what muscles are supposed to be contracting by putting my hand on his arm, leg, or back.
I don't care that my trainer is 21 years old, adorably puppy like and I'm neither of those things - this is delightful.
Even though my trainer has a girlfriend that he talks about often and sweetly, he and I are in a long-term committed relationship. Yes, I'm paying him a lot of money to be in this relationship, but me having to pay for a man over top of me so I can lay there and pant has always been kind of inevitable.
I see him for three hours a week, which is more than I see any of my friends. While it's not a sexual or romantic relationship, he knows when I'm having a bad day, haven't shaved my legs, and have left the house with mismatched socks. Basically, he's probably the closest person to me these days.
He is also arguably one of the best looking guys I've ever seen in real life, but it's hard to be attracted to him when he looks like that, and I end each of our "dates" looking like a spandex clad tsunami victim.
A month or so ago I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem. The problem being, my thyroid had quit this bitch. When a thyroid works over time, it's hard to keep weight on. When it refuses to do anything at all, it's a whole other world of misery.
Even while doing Weight Watchers, I was gaining three to four pounds a week for months on end. I'm sure the Weight Watchers corporation collectively heaved a sigh of relief when I gave up and stopped going to meetings, because I must have really been fucking up their numbers.
Since that diagnosis, I started seeing a Naturopath. She's devised a new diet and supplement regiment, and while it's very strict and low-calorie -- it's working. In one month, I'm down nine pounds. This is progress.
Five days a week, I'm in the gym. Three of those five days a week, I'm there once in the morning and once at night. Most of my sessions are cardio, except for the three hours my trainer spends a week trying to convince me I'm not a turkey loaf.
I can honestly say I've never worked harder at anything in my life. My days are focused on my eating schedule and going to the gym. That's it. Oh, and texting people. Texting has replaced my social life, which only makes sense, since it long ago replaced my sex life. My phone gets more action than I do, and I'm not just a little bit concerned it's contracted chlamydia.
The isolation factor in doing what I'm doing may actually be the most difficult part about it. Few people understand how important it is to me, and the sacrifices I'm willing to make. No, I won't go to brunch. No, I don't want to drink. No, I can't skip it just for a day. No, I don't want to go to Costco just to eat the samples.
With every pound lost, I feel a little bit more like me, which means I'm not so much fighting to get my health back, as I am fighting for my life.
And that has to be worth a few free samples at Costco.
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Pilot's Wife
I'm sweating through my blouse, and if sit for one minute longer, I'll be sweating through my pants. Possibly my boots. The elderly gentleman sitting next to me on the couch is cucumber chilly in a cardigan and turtleneck.
What happens to old people? How can they not feel heat? It's dangerous. Not so much for them, but for people who still have blood left to steam. And by people, I mean me.
The elderly gentleman is William, and the non-profit organization I work for is making a home delivery of some medical equipment he needs. I'm just along for the ride, and thought the old fellow might like some company while my colleagues work to set things up.
William is a former military pilot, and at 93, still very handsome. His face is relatively unlined, bright blue eyes clear, and white hair retirement commercial approved. I cross my arms to prevent the sweat from dripping from my boobs to my waistband.
"Are you too cold? It's a bit chilly out today. I can turn up the thermostat if you like?"
NO. OH SWEET JESUS. NO.
I assure William I'm very comfortable, but thank you. Considering we're strangers in his home, William is very hospitable. He apologies for a mess that's non-existent. He's only been in this retirement residence apartment for a month, and his move here was hasty.
He points out an errant box on the coffee table, and cords all over his computer table. He shows me how he Skypes with his grandkids on his massive computer screen. William is legally blind, and the text on screen is massive.
I compliment him on the art in his home. Beautiful big paintings are all over the walls. Stunning landscapes and swirling colours - they appear similar. I ask him if they're all by the same artist, and he laughs.
"Why yes! I did them!"
William and his wife travelled the world, and to remember their favorite moments together, William would paint a painting within hours of getting back home.
I ask him about where various paintings are from, forgetting he's blind and can't see where I'm pointing. I'm smooth like that.
The white church looking building? San Juan Capistrano, where we saw the birds. The red rocks? Yuma, Arizona. Extraordinary place. The blue water? The Aegean Sea, off of Crete. That was quite the day - I remember Janie diving into the water. I remember every minute of that day.
Does Janie remember? His wife is part of the reason we're paying this visit. William's on his own, for the first time in a long time. They've been married 70 years. Even if I met somebody and married him tomorrow, I won't live long enough to be married for 70 years. 70 years. A lifetime.
When I ask how Janie is doing, he makes a see-saw motion with his hand.
"You know how it is. Up and down. Good and bad days."
Actually, I don't know. I don't know what it's like to lose most of the love of my entire life to a massive stroke.
From what I heard, Janie can't speak, and is paralyzed on one side. She's 96 years old, and until a month ago she loved to cook, bake, and tend to her garden. She took care of her husband, acting as his eyes when the former pilot and artist lost his sight. Married for 70 years, he now lives in the apartment living section of the retirement home. She lives in the long-term care section, separated by long, progressively more hospital smelling hallways.
William points at a small scooter parked by his kitchennette. It's a new purchase, and he's delighted with how fast it goes. People sure do get out of the way!
He uses it to visit Janie every day, and was just there this morning. She was agitated. She speaks, but nobody understands what she's saying, and her thoughts are all jumbled up like a salad. And she has the runs.
William and I sit in agreeable silence. The runs do have a negative affect no matter who you are. I stare at the painting with the blue water, and imagine myself in it.
"This is a nice apartment - very well appointed," I tell him.
Who says that? Somebody who'd dying of heat exhaustion says that. The apartment isn't bad, but it's small. William and Janie left a big, rambling family house behind. The kids were still sorting through the details. When Janie had her stroke, everything happened very quickly.
It's not so bad, William agreed. "I thought I'd be carried out of my house feet first, but life doesn't always work out the way you plan it to."
You got that right.
In fact, he and Janie had reserved an apartment in another place.
"It was nicer than this - the one on the lake?"
I know the place. That retirement home is like a Sandals resort for the elderly set. I'd move in there tomorrow if they let me, but will never have the money.
"We had to give up the spot after Janie...you know. They don't have long-term care there, so we're here instead."
"How's the food here?" I ask.
"I wouldn't brag about it."
There are grocery bags on the kitchen counter, and I ask William if he does his own shopping. His eyes light up.
William has an outdoor scooter, that's even faster than the indoor one. He went all the way to Wal-Mart with it, and the damned thing even has cup-holders!
I agree that cup-holders are a necessity for living, and am just as delighted as William at the idea of him running people off the sidewalks in a giant scooter. The man did fly fighter jets after all.
"Where are you taking the outdoor scooter next?"
William said he was going to pick up Janie, and take her down the coast.
I whip my head around, fearful that William's cheese had suddenly slid off his cracker, and he laughs at my reaction. He got me pretty good, and I laugh too.
But what if I did though, William said.
"What if I picked up Janie some night, put her on the back of my scooter and we got out of here. Just went for a ride. Went for another trip. Would you tell?"
"Well William. You've assured me you have cup-holders, so I wouldn't say a thing about it. I wouldn't stop you at all."
Dammit. Now my eyes are wet too.
William said he knew I wouldn't say anything, that I'm a very fine girl.
And so is Janie. And if you ever hear of an old man busting out his wife from a care home and taking off for places unknown on a super fast scooter with cup holders, don't try to stop them either.
Instead, let's all hope they make it to where they're going.
What happens to old people? How can they not feel heat? It's dangerous. Not so much for them, but for people who still have blood left to steam. And by people, I mean me.
The elderly gentleman is William, and the non-profit organization I work for is making a home delivery of some medical equipment he needs. I'm just along for the ride, and thought the old fellow might like some company while my colleagues work to set things up.
William is a former military pilot, and at 93, still very handsome. His face is relatively unlined, bright blue eyes clear, and white hair retirement commercial approved. I cross my arms to prevent the sweat from dripping from my boobs to my waistband.
"Are you too cold? It's a bit chilly out today. I can turn up the thermostat if you like?"
NO. OH SWEET JESUS. NO.
I assure William I'm very comfortable, but thank you. Considering we're strangers in his home, William is very hospitable. He apologies for a mess that's non-existent. He's only been in this retirement residence apartment for a month, and his move here was hasty.
He points out an errant box on the coffee table, and cords all over his computer table. He shows me how he Skypes with his grandkids on his massive computer screen. William is legally blind, and the text on screen is massive.
I compliment him on the art in his home. Beautiful big paintings are all over the walls. Stunning landscapes and swirling colours - they appear similar. I ask him if they're all by the same artist, and he laughs.
"Why yes! I did them!"
William and his wife travelled the world, and to remember their favorite moments together, William would paint a painting within hours of getting back home.
I ask him about where various paintings are from, forgetting he's blind and can't see where I'm pointing. I'm smooth like that.
The white church looking building? San Juan Capistrano, where we saw the birds. The red rocks? Yuma, Arizona. Extraordinary place. The blue water? The Aegean Sea, off of Crete. That was quite the day - I remember Janie diving into the water. I remember every minute of that day.
Does Janie remember? His wife is part of the reason we're paying this visit. William's on his own, for the first time in a long time. They've been married 70 years. Even if I met somebody and married him tomorrow, I won't live long enough to be married for 70 years. 70 years. A lifetime.
When I ask how Janie is doing, he makes a see-saw motion with his hand.
"You know how it is. Up and down. Good and bad days."
Actually, I don't know. I don't know what it's like to lose most of the love of my entire life to a massive stroke.
From what I heard, Janie can't speak, and is paralyzed on one side. She's 96 years old, and until a month ago she loved to cook, bake, and tend to her garden. She took care of her husband, acting as his eyes when the former pilot and artist lost his sight. Married for 70 years, he now lives in the apartment living section of the retirement home. She lives in the long-term care section, separated by long, progressively more hospital smelling hallways.
William points at a small scooter parked by his kitchennette. It's a new purchase, and he's delighted with how fast it goes. People sure do get out of the way!
He uses it to visit Janie every day, and was just there this morning. She was agitated. She speaks, but nobody understands what she's saying, and her thoughts are all jumbled up like a salad. And she has the runs.
William and I sit in agreeable silence. The runs do have a negative affect no matter who you are. I stare at the painting with the blue water, and imagine myself in it.
"This is a nice apartment - very well appointed," I tell him.
Who says that? Somebody who'd dying of heat exhaustion says that. The apartment isn't bad, but it's small. William and Janie left a big, rambling family house behind. The kids were still sorting through the details. When Janie had her stroke, everything happened very quickly.
It's not so bad, William agreed. "I thought I'd be carried out of my house feet first, but life doesn't always work out the way you plan it to."
You got that right.
In fact, he and Janie had reserved an apartment in another place.
"It was nicer than this - the one on the lake?"
I know the place. That retirement home is like a Sandals resort for the elderly set. I'd move in there tomorrow if they let me, but will never have the money.
"We had to give up the spot after Janie...you know. They don't have long-term care there, so we're here instead."
"How's the food here?" I ask.
"I wouldn't brag about it."
There are grocery bags on the kitchen counter, and I ask William if he does his own shopping. His eyes light up.
William has an outdoor scooter, that's even faster than the indoor one. He went all the way to Wal-Mart with it, and the damned thing even has cup-holders!
I agree that cup-holders are a necessity for living, and am just as delighted as William at the idea of him running people off the sidewalks in a giant scooter. The man did fly fighter jets after all.
"Where are you taking the outdoor scooter next?"
William said he was going to pick up Janie, and take her down the coast.
I whip my head around, fearful that William's cheese had suddenly slid off his cracker, and he laughs at my reaction. He got me pretty good, and I laugh too.
But what if I did though, William said.
"What if I picked up Janie some night, put her on the back of my scooter and we got out of here. Just went for a ride. Went for another trip. Would you tell?"
"Well William. You've assured me you have cup-holders, so I wouldn't say a thing about it. I wouldn't stop you at all."
Dammit. Now my eyes are wet too.
William said he knew I wouldn't say anything, that I'm a very fine girl.
And so is Janie. And if you ever hear of an old man busting out his wife from a care home and taking off for places unknown on a super fast scooter with cup holders, don't try to stop them either.
Instead, let's all hope they make it to where they're going.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
A Baby Story
Every few months I find myself in a walk-in clinic office, asking for a renewal on my birth control prescription. Frankly, it's the only optimistic thing I ever do. While I'm at no immediate risk for getting pregnant, a very small, nearly dead part of me likes to think I one day might have regular sex again.
Usually the clinic doctor asks some perfunctory questions about whether I smoke or have had my blood pressure tested ever, and I leave 30 seconds later with a small piece of paper and renewed sense of misplaced optimism.
This time, the doctor didn't immediately reach for his prescription pad. Instead, he asked me if I'd "finished family planning?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, and told him so. Realizing he was dealing with somebody who may not have the intelligence required to swallow a pill, he spoke more slowly.
"Are. You. Done. Having. Children?"
Well no wonder I was confused. First off, like many people who've known me for less than a moment, he was assuming I had a biological clock and maternal instinct. He was wrong, but because I do have a lightly used vagina, I suppose it was an honest mistake.
Most people with vaginas do want kids, and aren't in the least bit terrified by how so many children smell inexplicably like juice.
(Seriously - why is this? There's no juice for miles, and kids will just exude nasty Tropicana blend. It's disturbing.)
I assured him that I had no children at all, and wasn't planning on changing that. This seemed to settle the the issue for him.
"Why not just get your tubes tied then?"
I was speechless. I know I'm not using my uterus and assorted tubes for anything special at the moment, but that's no reason to just tie things up like old newspapers and clear it out of there.
(I may be slightly fuzzy on exactly what having one's tubes tied entails medically, but my outrage remains.)
The doctor's concern is that I'm too old to be on the pill, which is so fucking awesome. And by awesome, I mean not awesome in any way. I'm at a high risk for blood clots, and cringe-inducing pathos apparently. At a certain age, if nobody's knocked me up yet, taking pains to prevent such a thing from happening probably becomes farcical.
I suggested that any kind of surgery would be too drastic for me, and maybe, since I'm not married, I might want to keep my options open. The look he gave me was pure pity.
We settled on a prescription for an IUD, which I was actually delighted with. No pills to take, and good for five years!
Two days later I was in another medical office, having finally landed a family doctor. It only took five years, but I found a doctor willing to accept me as a new patient, a decision I'm sure the man already regrets deeply.
This new doctor is lovely. Truly, lovely. Despite a line-up of patients waiting outside, he took a long time to talk to me about all of my health issues. We discussed my vagina exploding, which I thought was an excellent segue way into getting his opinion on switching to an IUD, given my history.
Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to say. Considering how smoothly he'd handled everything else I'd told him, this was unnerving. Stammering, he asked if I wasn't aware that given the nature of the surgery I had, I probably couldn't have children. Didn't anybody tell me that?
Well...no. Nobody did.
It stands to reason. I'd actually wondered about it, but never asked because...well, kids are disgusting. I've never wanted to have one. I've never even wanted to touch one, but have occasionally given in and held a baby or two here or there just to prove I'm not entirely heartless, and can perform such a task without needing legal representation.
I figured I probably could get pregnant, but would likely be unable to deliver naturally or even carry the baby to term. In the weeks following the surgery, I asked the surgeon so many questions. Important questions, like how I could avoid a colostomy bag? Would I ever be able to have sex again? If I can have sex, can I have anal? Not that I really want to or anything, just...could I?
I never asked about kids.
I count myself as very lucky that I've never wanted to have children. I'm grateful, because how devastating would my life be if I did? Nobody wants to date me, let alone procreate with me.
If I wanted to get pregnant, I'd be looking for a careless one-night stand or donor sperm. I'd be raising the sticky, stinky little monster alone. Finding a mate, often considered the best first step to having a family, is not in my future.
It's a little like being relieved New York Fashion Week didn't call me to walk in any runway shows this year, on account of my terribly busy schedule.
Surely, my busy schedule is the only obstacle standing in the way of career as a sought after supermodel.
Ahem.
I can dislike children as much as I want, and remain relatively dry-eyed when told I may as well convert my womb to office space, but the truth is, it would never happen regardless of what I want.
That said...it's one thing to choose not to do something. It's something else entirely to have that choice taken away.
Flash forward to two days later, when me and my questionable uterus are sitting in my office, texting with Alex. Like any other time I've ever talked with him, I ask him what's new.
His exact answer: Nothing. Baby's due soon.
Funny, because he never told me his girlfriend was pregnant. Not once, and we chat nearly every day. He had nine months to remember to say something, because she's due in October. Funny, because he swears he told me, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that little nugget of info. No baby brain over here to make me forgetful.
Funny how everything happens all at once, all the time. I know very little about his girlfriend, other than she's gorgeous, normally a size 0 with improbable double D breasts, and was at one time, married to somebody else. Her and her husband tried to have kids, and underwent IVF treatments - but nothing took.
Funny, that this week would be the best week ever to learn one last thing to know about his girlfriend and the goddamn miracle baby she's about to drop. They're both over the moon, as everybody always is. And why not? She has what she always wanted, and...I suppose I do too.
Usually the clinic doctor asks some perfunctory questions about whether I smoke or have had my blood pressure tested ever, and I leave 30 seconds later with a small piece of paper and renewed sense of misplaced optimism.
This time, the doctor didn't immediately reach for his prescription pad. Instead, he asked me if I'd "finished family planning?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, and told him so. Realizing he was dealing with somebody who may not have the intelligence required to swallow a pill, he spoke more slowly.
"Are. You. Done. Having. Children?"
Well no wonder I was confused. First off, like many people who've known me for less than a moment, he was assuming I had a biological clock and maternal instinct. He was wrong, but because I do have a lightly used vagina, I suppose it was an honest mistake.
Most people with vaginas do want kids, and aren't in the least bit terrified by how so many children smell inexplicably like juice.
(Seriously - why is this? There's no juice for miles, and kids will just exude nasty Tropicana blend. It's disturbing.)
I assured him that I had no children at all, and wasn't planning on changing that. This seemed to settle the the issue for him.
"Why not just get your tubes tied then?"
I was speechless. I know I'm not using my uterus and assorted tubes for anything special at the moment, but that's no reason to just tie things up like old newspapers and clear it out of there.
(I may be slightly fuzzy on exactly what having one's tubes tied entails medically, but my outrage remains.)
The doctor's concern is that I'm too old to be on the pill, which is so fucking awesome. And by awesome, I mean not awesome in any way. I'm at a high risk for blood clots, and cringe-inducing pathos apparently. At a certain age, if nobody's knocked me up yet, taking pains to prevent such a thing from happening probably becomes farcical.
I suggested that any kind of surgery would be too drastic for me, and maybe, since I'm not married, I might want to keep my options open. The look he gave me was pure pity.
We settled on a prescription for an IUD, which I was actually delighted with. No pills to take, and good for five years!
Two days later I was in another medical office, having finally landed a family doctor. It only took five years, but I found a doctor willing to accept me as a new patient, a decision I'm sure the man already regrets deeply.
This new doctor is lovely. Truly, lovely. Despite a line-up of patients waiting outside, he took a long time to talk to me about all of my health issues. We discussed my vagina exploding, which I thought was an excellent segue way into getting his opinion on switching to an IUD, given my history.
Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to say. Considering how smoothly he'd handled everything else I'd told him, this was unnerving. Stammering, he asked if I wasn't aware that given the nature of the surgery I had, I probably couldn't have children. Didn't anybody tell me that?
Well...no. Nobody did.
It stands to reason. I'd actually wondered about it, but never asked because...well, kids are disgusting. I've never wanted to have one. I've never even wanted to touch one, but have occasionally given in and held a baby or two here or there just to prove I'm not entirely heartless, and can perform such a task without needing legal representation.
I figured I probably could get pregnant, but would likely be unable to deliver naturally or even carry the baby to term. In the weeks following the surgery, I asked the surgeon so many questions. Important questions, like how I could avoid a colostomy bag? Would I ever be able to have sex again? If I can have sex, can I have anal? Not that I really want to or anything, just...could I?
I never asked about kids.
I count myself as very lucky that I've never wanted to have children. I'm grateful, because how devastating would my life be if I did? Nobody wants to date me, let alone procreate with me.
If I wanted to get pregnant, I'd be looking for a careless one-night stand or donor sperm. I'd be raising the sticky, stinky little monster alone. Finding a mate, often considered the best first step to having a family, is not in my future.
It's a little like being relieved New York Fashion Week didn't call me to walk in any runway shows this year, on account of my terribly busy schedule.
Surely, my busy schedule is the only obstacle standing in the way of career as a sought after supermodel.
Ahem.
I can dislike children as much as I want, and remain relatively dry-eyed when told I may as well convert my womb to office space, but the truth is, it would never happen regardless of what I want.
That said...it's one thing to choose not to do something. It's something else entirely to have that choice taken away.
Flash forward to two days later, when me and my questionable uterus are sitting in my office, texting with Alex. Like any other time I've ever talked with him, I ask him what's new.
His exact answer: Nothing. Baby's due soon.
Funny, because he never told me his girlfriend was pregnant. Not once, and we chat nearly every day. He had nine months to remember to say something, because she's due in October. Funny, because he swears he told me, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that little nugget of info. No baby brain over here to make me forgetful.
Funny how everything happens all at once, all the time. I know very little about his girlfriend, other than she's gorgeous, normally a size 0 with improbable double D breasts, and was at one time, married to somebody else. Her and her husband tried to have kids, and underwent IVF treatments - but nothing took.
Funny, that this week would be the best week ever to learn one last thing to know about his girlfriend and the goddamn miracle baby she's about to drop. They're both over the moon, as everybody always is. And why not? She has what she always wanted, and...I suppose I do too.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Beauty Tips for the Challenged - Self Tanning
I'm starting a new feature on my little blog, in the hopes that I can make a positive difference in the lives of all three of my readers. There are so many things I've done or have had happen that should not be repeated by anybody, ever. For the most part, I don't worry that these things could ever happen to anybody else.
(Has anybody else ever had her date steal her vibrator...? No? Still just me? Fantastic. If you're new to this blog and don't believe that happened...it actually happened. You can read all about it in one of my early posts - the one I'm too lazy to look up and link to.)
Because I am challenged in all ways, every once in a while, I do something stupid that could possibly serve as a lesson to others. Because I'm as insecure as a 13 year old girl at her very first boy-girl dance, these stupid things usually involve a misguided effort in self-improvement.
And by misguided, I mean tragic.
This first installment in my new series concerns self tanning. I experience these things, so you won't have to, and that's just the kind of altruistic person I am.
First off, DO decide to cover yourself in brown food colouring for the right reasons. Acceptable reasons for wanting to change your skin colour include the mistaken belief you might some day have sex again and want to paint over your cellulite like it's a home improvement project, and thinking your ankles will look slimmer if they didn't glow with the white light of a thousand suns.
DON'T be concerned if the teenage girl at the tanning salon has no idea what chemicals are in the "tanning solution" used in the self-tanning spray booth. Nobody has ever died from self-tanning, so it's unlikely you'll be the first that anybody knows about.
DO make generous use of the barrier cream made available in the spray room. This goes on the palms of your hands and the bottoms of your feet, to prevent the tanning spray from turning you into a total freak of nature.
DON'T think it will be perfectly safe to walk the three steps from the changing area to the spray tan booth with the bottoms of your feet layered in 18 layers of vaseline. Nobody wants to find your pasty, partially vaselined body covered atop by a shower cap all splayed out on the floor of a tanning salon. I didn't fall over, but it nearly happened. When your life flashes before your eyes and the last three seconds of it invoved putting on a shower cap to protect your hair from spray tan solution, you will regret those last three seconds, and wish you were doing something more meaningful.
DO make sure your feet are on the magnetic sensors shaped like feet inside the tanning booth before hitting the button that will release a bucket full of spray tan solution directly at your face and body. You wouldn't want to tan all askew.
DON'T panic when the icy cold tanning spray hits you in the face, causing you to flail and suck the tanning solution deep into both lungs when you were supposed to be holding your breath as instructed. Odds are probably good you won't asphixiate, and if you do, there have probably been dumber deaths recorded throughout history.
DO turn around when the automated machine's automated voice tells you to. This is what you came here for - the moment your jiggly and dimpled white bum get repainted. You don't want to miss the moment.
DON'T worry when it occurs to you that your inner thighs didn't get any spray from either direction, because it's too late. Much like running a line of spray paint down the front of a giant redwood in the forest, there's bound to be a little bit of circumfrence that gets missed. And by a little bit, I mean a fuck of a lot.
DO pretend you're Beyonce and do a little dance when pressing the "DRY" button repeatedly inside the spray tanning booth. This button releases gusts of air like a wind machine, and we all need a little more wind machine when dancing.
DON'T stop hitting the DRY button for the next hour, or you'll regret it later, for reasons that will soon become apparent.
DO marvel at the fact your nipples now blend in so much better with the rest of your breasts, and it's hardly weird looking at all.
DON'T get dressed and get in the car to drive home when you're still sticky. Even if the teenage girl at the front desk says it's OK, it's not OK. It's not OK! Don't do it!
DO get naked and check yourself out more fully at home.
DON'T panic when you see what happened to you and your new spray tan during the short drive home. Particularly, don't dispair when you notice that your entire tummy and torso is now striped, like this:
_________________________
BROWN
_________________________
WHITE
_________________________
BROWN
_________________________
WHITE
_________________________
BROWN
_________________________
This happened because you have rolls when you sit down. Unsightly, fluffy, rolls. In between those rolls, the sticky tanning solution rubbed off in the creases. Congratulations, you now look like a disturbed child's art project.
DO feel free to wipe frantically with your hands, thinking that will help spread out the self tanner. It won't help, but you might feel better by doing something proactive.
DON'T forget you no longer have barrier cream on the palms of your hands, and wiping frantically will lead to very bad things happening to the natural colour of your mittens.
DO take stock of all the areas you'll have to fill in with store bought self tanner before ever getting naked again, up to and including the parchment white swaths down either side of your body, the inside of your thighs, the underside of your butt, the creases in your tummy and the patchy parts on the top of your feet due to somebody's inablility to apply barrier cream to foot bottoms only.
DON'T worry that the salon spray tan and drugstore self-tanner shades don't match. It's not like you're going to have sex again any time soon, so it's not like anybody's going to spot the difference.
DO pat yourself on the back! For the next two weeks, you're a glowing, bronzed, sun-kissed goddess, and nobody can tell you otherwise.
Unless of course, you show them the palms of your hands.
(Has anybody else ever had her date steal her vibrator...? No? Still just me? Fantastic. If you're new to this blog and don't believe that happened...it actually happened. You can read all about it in one of my early posts - the one I'm too lazy to look up and link to.)
Because I am challenged in all ways, every once in a while, I do something stupid that could possibly serve as a lesson to others. Because I'm as insecure as a 13 year old girl at her very first boy-girl dance, these stupid things usually involve a misguided effort in self-improvement.
And by misguided, I mean tragic.
This first installment in my new series concerns self tanning. I experience these things, so you won't have to, and that's just the kind of altruistic person I am.
First off, DO decide to cover yourself in brown food colouring for the right reasons. Acceptable reasons for wanting to change your skin colour include the mistaken belief you might some day have sex again and want to paint over your cellulite like it's a home improvement project, and thinking your ankles will look slimmer if they didn't glow with the white light of a thousand suns.
DON'T be concerned if the teenage girl at the tanning salon has no idea what chemicals are in the "tanning solution" used in the self-tanning spray booth. Nobody has ever died from self-tanning, so it's unlikely you'll be the first that anybody knows about.
DO make generous use of the barrier cream made available in the spray room. This goes on the palms of your hands and the bottoms of your feet, to prevent the tanning spray from turning you into a total freak of nature.
DON'T think it will be perfectly safe to walk the three steps from the changing area to the spray tan booth with the bottoms of your feet layered in 18 layers of vaseline. Nobody wants to find your pasty, partially vaselined body covered atop by a shower cap all splayed out on the floor of a tanning salon. I didn't fall over, but it nearly happened. When your life flashes before your eyes and the last three seconds of it invoved putting on a shower cap to protect your hair from spray tan solution, you will regret those last three seconds, and wish you were doing something more meaningful.
DO make sure your feet are on the magnetic sensors shaped like feet inside the tanning booth before hitting the button that will release a bucket full of spray tan solution directly at your face and body. You wouldn't want to tan all askew.
DON'T panic when the icy cold tanning spray hits you in the face, causing you to flail and suck the tanning solution deep into both lungs when you were supposed to be holding your breath as instructed. Odds are probably good you won't asphixiate, and if you do, there have probably been dumber deaths recorded throughout history.
DO turn around when the automated machine's automated voice tells you to. This is what you came here for - the moment your jiggly and dimpled white bum get repainted. You don't want to miss the moment.
DON'T worry when it occurs to you that your inner thighs didn't get any spray from either direction, because it's too late. Much like running a line of spray paint down the front of a giant redwood in the forest, there's bound to be a little bit of circumfrence that gets missed. And by a little bit, I mean a fuck of a lot.
DO pretend you're Beyonce and do a little dance when pressing the "DRY" button repeatedly inside the spray tanning booth. This button releases gusts of air like a wind machine, and we all need a little more wind machine when dancing.
DON'T stop hitting the DRY button for the next hour, or you'll regret it later, for reasons that will soon become apparent.
DO marvel at the fact your nipples now blend in so much better with the rest of your breasts, and it's hardly weird looking at all.
DON'T get dressed and get in the car to drive home when you're still sticky. Even if the teenage girl at the front desk says it's OK, it's not OK. It's not OK! Don't do it!
DO get naked and check yourself out more fully at home.
DON'T panic when you see what happened to you and your new spray tan during the short drive home. Particularly, don't dispair when you notice that your entire tummy and torso is now striped, like this:
_________________________
BROWN
_________________________
WHITE
_________________________
BROWN
_________________________
WHITE
_________________________
BROWN
_________________________
This happened because you have rolls when you sit down. Unsightly, fluffy, rolls. In between those rolls, the sticky tanning solution rubbed off in the creases. Congratulations, you now look like a disturbed child's art project.
DO feel free to wipe frantically with your hands, thinking that will help spread out the self tanner. It won't help, but you might feel better by doing something proactive.
DON'T forget you no longer have barrier cream on the palms of your hands, and wiping frantically will lead to very bad things happening to the natural colour of your mittens.
DO take stock of all the areas you'll have to fill in with store bought self tanner before ever getting naked again, up to and including the parchment white swaths down either side of your body, the inside of your thighs, the underside of your butt, the creases in your tummy and the patchy parts on the top of your feet due to somebody's inablility to apply barrier cream to foot bottoms only.
DON'T worry that the salon spray tan and drugstore self-tanner shades don't match. It's not like you're going to have sex again any time soon, so it's not like anybody's going to spot the difference.
DO pat yourself on the back! For the next two weeks, you're a glowing, bronzed, sun-kissed goddess, and nobody can tell you otherwise.
Unless of course, you show them the palms of your hands.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Super-Sized Me
You know who I hate? Most people. You know who I hate specifically? Women who lose weight when they’re "stressed." You always know who they are, because they don’t shut up about it.
“Ever since we started renovating our waterfront property and planning our summer getaway to Europe, I’ve been so stressed out I just can’t keep weight on! No matter what I eat, I just keep dropping sizes! I mean, look – I haven’t had visible abs since I was a teenager!”
Equally obnoxious, are people so busy they forget to eat. How many brain cells have to misfire before a body forgets to eat? A plane full of athletes can crash in the Andes, and despite being busy trying not to die, they remember to eat something – even if it’s one another.
Darwinism dictates that people who eat food survive. Those who can’t - die. Unless of course, you’re just busy, in which case, eating food is only as important as remembering where you left your keys or remembering that your sunglasses are actually atop your head.
I hate these people, because I am not one of them. I’m an entirely different freak of nature.
Last year, I lost 50 pounds with Weight Watchers. In the six months I was broken and unemployed, I gained it all back. I’ve been following the Weight Watchers program again for the last three months, and I’ve since gained another three sizes. I’m now the largest I’ve ever been in my life, and gaining an average of 3.5 pounds a week, regardless of what I put in my mouth.
One week I managed 3 hours of working out with a personal trainer, one hour of deep water running, four hours of walking and two hours of cardio, while eating at a doctor approved number of calories considered safe for sensible weight loss. I gained another two pounds.
Nobody can tell me why my body is doing this. Weight loss is a mathematical equation. Calories consumed versus calories burned. For me, one plus one is adding up to three, and nobody knows why.
Doctors don’t want to test me for a thyroid problem, insisting that my sensibly restricted diet and exercise will work. Eventually. Other doctors feel it’s simply my body reacting to stress. I’ve been through a difficult time, and my stress hormones are continuing to pump too much cortisol. Eventually, it’ll stop. Hopefully that happens before I become wedged in any doorways.
In the meantime, I’ve had to buy new underwear, stretching the fabric in the store to the width of a Smart car before deciding they were close enough to fit. If this continues for another six months, I'll be wearing the Smart car.
I’m wearing a lot of billowy dresses bought at thrift stores, because nothing I ever owned fits me anymore - not even the one pair of fat pants I kept after losing 50 pounds, just to show how far I'd come. (Ha!) I shop at thrift stores, because I can't afford the extra $45 plus size clothing stores tack on to every item, in order to cover the costs of the extra six inches of material.
(Can somebody please explain to me why so many plus size clothing items have anchors on them? Or stripes? Or cats?? Do I really need to be wearing something that makes the connection for other people that I'm roughly the size of a small fishing boat? Do I need to look upholstered, or like the world's largest walking optical illusion? Does my clothing really need to tell people I'm likely going to die alone??)
When I wear my dresses, I either have to have some very hard-working bike shorts underneath, or remember to smear some anti-chafing lotion between my thighs. If I don't, the friction could result in my ass bursting into flames and my thighs turned to raw hamburger.
Even with summer dresses lacking in a waist band, I come home sporting welts. My underwear digs, my bra digs, my sleeves dig, and even when I have no sleeves, my underarms rub raw. Dignity is out, but discomfort is always in.
I don’t recognize myself anymore, and the first time my personal trainer made me look in the mirror to check my form while lifting weights, I started to cry. She hasn’t made me look again since.
Being this uncomfortable affects everything I do. I don't really like going out anymore, as in, leaving the house. I've missed special events and parties, because I would have had to wear a bathing suit. I've cried over "fun" pictures I'm tagged in from a recent vacation, because I look like a house. I spent an entire webcam date with Alex, wrapped in a blanket, swearing to God it was because I was cold.
And then some times it gets even more ridiculous. Some of you may recall that earlier in the year, I spent some time hiding from Alex’s mother behind a laundry room door while half naked. That was fun. (And by fun, read: not fun at all.)
On Canada Day, I hid for ten minutes behind a giant street art installation. A fibre glass rainbow colored whale to be exact. On this occasion, I was hiding from the guy I happened to be with when my vagina exploded. I saw him, but he didn’t see me, thanks to my quick thinking and the giant-ass whale. At least my evasive maneuvers are becoming more original. I stopped hearing from him the day after it happened, and haven’t seen him since, so recognizing who he was shocked me a little.
I didn’t want him seeing me and thinking to himself, “Hey – there’s that girl with the stunt vagina. Thought she was dead.” Or, “Wow – didn’t that girl used to be skinny?” Hence, me hiding behind a giant whale. As one does.
Admittedly, my diet is faltering. If I continuously gain the same amount of weight regardless of whether I choose the spinach salad with dressing on the side or the Triple Chocolate Turtle Pie with a bottle of wine on the side, I can tell you right now – I am not strong enough to keep choosing the spinach salad out of principle.
I can keep it up for a few months at a time, but when I bust out of a dress I wore just last month without going off my diet or letting up at the gym – you best believe this bitch is going to eat EVERYTHING.
And then when I inevitably do, I will hate my fat self even more.
“Ever since we started renovating our waterfront property and planning our summer getaway to Europe, I’ve been so stressed out I just can’t keep weight on! No matter what I eat, I just keep dropping sizes! I mean, look – I haven’t had visible abs since I was a teenager!”
Equally obnoxious, are people so busy they forget to eat. How many brain cells have to misfire before a body forgets to eat? A plane full of athletes can crash in the Andes, and despite being busy trying not to die, they remember to eat something – even if it’s one another.
Darwinism dictates that people who eat food survive. Those who can’t - die. Unless of course, you’re just busy, in which case, eating food is only as important as remembering where you left your keys or remembering that your sunglasses are actually atop your head.
I hate these people, because I am not one of them. I’m an entirely different freak of nature.
Last year, I lost 50 pounds with Weight Watchers. In the six months I was broken and unemployed, I gained it all back. I’ve been following the Weight Watchers program again for the last three months, and I’ve since gained another three sizes. I’m now the largest I’ve ever been in my life, and gaining an average of 3.5 pounds a week, regardless of what I put in my mouth.
One week I managed 3 hours of working out with a personal trainer, one hour of deep water running, four hours of walking and two hours of cardio, while eating at a doctor approved number of calories considered safe for sensible weight loss. I gained another two pounds.
Nobody can tell me why my body is doing this. Weight loss is a mathematical equation. Calories consumed versus calories burned. For me, one plus one is adding up to three, and nobody knows why.
Doctors don’t want to test me for a thyroid problem, insisting that my sensibly restricted diet and exercise will work. Eventually. Other doctors feel it’s simply my body reacting to stress. I’ve been through a difficult time, and my stress hormones are continuing to pump too much cortisol. Eventually, it’ll stop. Hopefully that happens before I become wedged in any doorways.
In the meantime, I’ve had to buy new underwear, stretching the fabric in the store to the width of a Smart car before deciding they were close enough to fit. If this continues for another six months, I'll be wearing the Smart car.
I’m wearing a lot of billowy dresses bought at thrift stores, because nothing I ever owned fits me anymore - not even the one pair of fat pants I kept after losing 50 pounds, just to show how far I'd come. (Ha!) I shop at thrift stores, because I can't afford the extra $45 plus size clothing stores tack on to every item, in order to cover the costs of the extra six inches of material.
(Can somebody please explain to me why so many plus size clothing items have anchors on them? Or stripes? Or cats?? Do I really need to be wearing something that makes the connection for other people that I'm roughly the size of a small fishing boat? Do I need to look upholstered, or like the world's largest walking optical illusion? Does my clothing really need to tell people I'm likely going to die alone??)
When I wear my dresses, I either have to have some very hard-working bike shorts underneath, or remember to smear some anti-chafing lotion between my thighs. If I don't, the friction could result in my ass bursting into flames and my thighs turned to raw hamburger.
Even with summer dresses lacking in a waist band, I come home sporting welts. My underwear digs, my bra digs, my sleeves dig, and even when I have no sleeves, my underarms rub raw. Dignity is out, but discomfort is always in.
I don’t recognize myself anymore, and the first time my personal trainer made me look in the mirror to check my form while lifting weights, I started to cry. She hasn’t made me look again since.
Being this uncomfortable affects everything I do. I don't really like going out anymore, as in, leaving the house. I've missed special events and parties, because I would have had to wear a bathing suit. I've cried over "fun" pictures I'm tagged in from a recent vacation, because I look like a house. I spent an entire webcam date with Alex, wrapped in a blanket, swearing to God it was because I was cold.
And then some times it gets even more ridiculous. Some of you may recall that earlier in the year, I spent some time hiding from Alex’s mother behind a laundry room door while half naked. That was fun. (And by fun, read: not fun at all.)
On Canada Day, I hid for ten minutes behind a giant street art installation. A fibre glass rainbow colored whale to be exact. On this occasion, I was hiding from the guy I happened to be with when my vagina exploded. I saw him, but he didn’t see me, thanks to my quick thinking and the giant-ass whale. At least my evasive maneuvers are becoming more original. I stopped hearing from him the day after it happened, and haven’t seen him since, so recognizing who he was shocked me a little.
I didn’t want him seeing me and thinking to himself, “Hey – there’s that girl with the stunt vagina. Thought she was dead.” Or, “Wow – didn’t that girl used to be skinny?” Hence, me hiding behind a giant whale. As one does.
Admittedly, my diet is faltering. If I continuously gain the same amount of weight regardless of whether I choose the spinach salad with dressing on the side or the Triple Chocolate Turtle Pie with a bottle of wine on the side, I can tell you right now – I am not strong enough to keep choosing the spinach salad out of principle.
I can keep it up for a few months at a time, but when I bust out of a dress I wore just last month without going off my diet or letting up at the gym – you best believe this bitch is going to eat EVERYTHING.
And then when I inevitably do, I will hate my fat self even more.
Friday, August 3, 2012
July? Not a fan.
Sometimes I really hate my psychiatrist. She’s extremely intelligent, sees me for free and doesn’t buy most of my bullshit. For the most part, as kind of a crazy person, I couldn’t ask for any better.
On the other hand, she’s capable of cursing me with great misfortune. She never predicts good things happening, but when she predicts bad things, the woman is Nostradamus with boobs.
I saw her in late June, and she asked me if I was anxious for July. I had no idea why I should be anxious for anything in July, but thinking there was something terrible I was forgetting to be anxious for in July made me very anxious for July.
As she reminded me, July of last year was when my vagina exploded. It was a very traumatic event, as was the resulting surgery. Within months I lost my job, and then my ability to walk properly until March.
I was unemployed for half a year – and it all started with that one traumatic event, which was so closely related to anther traumatic event that I pretended didn’t happen for years. The last year of my life would have left most people straight-jacketed.
Therefore, was I not anxious for July?
I assured her that I was not anxious. Rather, I am peachy. Totally, wholeheartedly, peachy.
PEACHY.
I’m happy in my new job, and no longer think I’m going to be fired every time my boss calls. I more expect it will happen through an email inviting me to the Vancouver office for a meeting.
While I wish I could say that I hardly think about my vagina exploding, or all that blood, or the tiny drops of blood spatter I’m still finding on my baseboards, or the pain, or the fear, or the irrational belief I will need a colostomy bag should I ever have sex again, I can at least say I breathe slightly more often than I remember the gory details.
In fact, I hardly remember the horror of it at all, unless I’m thinking about sex, which is only every three minutes or so on days considered part of the week.
(My resistance to physical or sexual contact has actually put my shrink in a hilariously difficult position. I know she thinks it would be healthier if I would just fuck somebody and get it over with, for the love of God. Naturally a stranger would be out of the question, and meeting a good guy, falling in love and starting a healthy relationship is about as likely as developing super powers. Therefore, I watch her struggle between guiding me in the direction of Alex or the firefighter - two men she considers the third and fourth horsemen of the apocalypse respectively, and my attraction to both a definite sign I need psychological help. The way her jaw clenches when she realizes I’ll remain celibate and fearful for years or take one of these two to bed suggests the age-old question – shit or diarrhea.)
During my last visit in July, she tried a different tactic. Didn't I think it was interesting that I've chosen two men who for varying reasons are unavailable to me, and therefore sexual intercourse isn't even an option?
No, no I don't think it's interesting. I made the decision not to sleep with Alex years ago, when I realized he's been inside more vagina than Tampax, his current girlfriend notwithstanding, and the firefighter's wife declared me a hazard last July because of all that had happened to me, and accused me of putting him in "danger" because I didn't know and failed to disclose I was "damaged." Much like the entire town of Chernobyl, my lower half has been off limits to him since everything blew to hell.
(Luckily, we've kept up a connection through intensive and lust-driven text messaging. My iPhone has officially had more orgasms than I ever have in my entire life.)
Choice has very little to do with anything anymore, but my psychiatrist clearly doesn't understand just how resilient I clearly am.
I explained all of this back in June, and she merely stared at me in in the dreaded silence that makes all patients want to bite their own ears.
On July 1st, I started sleepwalking. The only thing I hate more than my psychiatrist being right is me being so predictable.
Fortunately, it doesn’t happen every night. Three or four nights a week is manageable, and perfectly safe. It’s not like I’m waking up in the 24-hour Tim Hortons across the street in my tank top and granny underpants wondering how I got there and why I’m eating a chili when I prefer their lasagna casserole. I don’t do anything dangerous or exciting, but what I seem to be doing is fleeing. While asleep.
I’m mostly aware of what I’m doing, so I’m not in a full blackout. I wake up in a panic, swing my legs out of bed (a movement my current level of cripple still makes into an eight step maneuver), and start running. I’ve fled into my closet, which is ridiculous, because anybody who’s ever seen my closet knows it’s the place where free space goes to die.
I’ve made it to my front door only once, but fortunately wasn’t with it enough to unlock the door and deadbolt. I woke up with both hands pressed against the door, almost like I expected it to swing open so I could continue my flight from nothing to nowhere. I’m rather glad it didn’t. My neighbors already think I’m a nuisance due to my bylaw violating choice of curtains over blinds, so me running the hallways half naked probably wouldn't help my case.
My sleep being interrupted by random slow motion sprinting must really put me on edge. Some days I cry until I remember that I’m actually really angry. And then I cry some more. Other days I'm smiling because everything will likely work out in the end. Surely, my wildly swinging emotions must be related to sleep deprivation, and nothing else…right? Right.
Psychiatrist: 1
Bambi: 0
On the other hand, she’s capable of cursing me with great misfortune. She never predicts good things happening, but when she predicts bad things, the woman is Nostradamus with boobs.
I saw her in late June, and she asked me if I was anxious for July. I had no idea why I should be anxious for anything in July, but thinking there was something terrible I was forgetting to be anxious for in July made me very anxious for July.
As she reminded me, July of last year was when my vagina exploded. It was a very traumatic event, as was the resulting surgery. Within months I lost my job, and then my ability to walk properly until March.
I was unemployed for half a year – and it all started with that one traumatic event, which was so closely related to anther traumatic event that I pretended didn’t happen for years. The last year of my life would have left most people straight-jacketed.
Therefore, was I not anxious for July?
I assured her that I was not anxious. Rather, I am peachy. Totally, wholeheartedly, peachy.
PEACHY.
I’m happy in my new job, and no longer think I’m going to be fired every time my boss calls. I more expect it will happen through an email inviting me to the Vancouver office for a meeting.
While I wish I could say that I hardly think about my vagina exploding, or all that blood, or the tiny drops of blood spatter I’m still finding on my baseboards, or the pain, or the fear, or the irrational belief I will need a colostomy bag should I ever have sex again, I can at least say I breathe slightly more often than I remember the gory details.
In fact, I hardly remember the horror of it at all, unless I’m thinking about sex, which is only every three minutes or so on days considered part of the week.
(My resistance to physical or sexual contact has actually put my shrink in a hilariously difficult position. I know she thinks it would be healthier if I would just fuck somebody and get it over with, for the love of God. Naturally a stranger would be out of the question, and meeting a good guy, falling in love and starting a healthy relationship is about as likely as developing super powers. Therefore, I watch her struggle between guiding me in the direction of Alex or the firefighter - two men she considers the third and fourth horsemen of the apocalypse respectively, and my attraction to both a definite sign I need psychological help. The way her jaw clenches when she realizes I’ll remain celibate and fearful for years or take one of these two to bed suggests the age-old question – shit or diarrhea.)
During my last visit in July, she tried a different tactic. Didn't I think it was interesting that I've chosen two men who for varying reasons are unavailable to me, and therefore sexual intercourse isn't even an option?
No, no I don't think it's interesting. I made the decision not to sleep with Alex years ago, when I realized he's been inside more vagina than Tampax, his current girlfriend notwithstanding, and the firefighter's wife declared me a hazard last July because of all that had happened to me, and accused me of putting him in "danger" because I didn't know and failed to disclose I was "damaged." Much like the entire town of Chernobyl, my lower half has been off limits to him since everything blew to hell.
(Luckily, we've kept up a connection through intensive and lust-driven text messaging. My iPhone has officially had more orgasms than I ever have in my entire life.)
Choice has very little to do with anything anymore, but my psychiatrist clearly doesn't understand just how resilient I clearly am.
I explained all of this back in June, and she merely stared at me in in the dreaded silence that makes all patients want to bite their own ears.
On July 1st, I started sleepwalking. The only thing I hate more than my psychiatrist being right is me being so predictable.
Fortunately, it doesn’t happen every night. Three or four nights a week is manageable, and perfectly safe. It’s not like I’m waking up in the 24-hour Tim Hortons across the street in my tank top and granny underpants wondering how I got there and why I’m eating a chili when I prefer their lasagna casserole. I don’t do anything dangerous or exciting, but what I seem to be doing is fleeing. While asleep.
I’m mostly aware of what I’m doing, so I’m not in a full blackout. I wake up in a panic, swing my legs out of bed (a movement my current level of cripple still makes into an eight step maneuver), and start running. I’ve fled into my closet, which is ridiculous, because anybody who’s ever seen my closet knows it’s the place where free space goes to die.
I’ve made it to my front door only once, but fortunately wasn’t with it enough to unlock the door and deadbolt. I woke up with both hands pressed against the door, almost like I expected it to swing open so I could continue my flight from nothing to nowhere. I’m rather glad it didn’t. My neighbors already think I’m a nuisance due to my bylaw violating choice of curtains over blinds, so me running the hallways half naked probably wouldn't help my case.
My sleep being interrupted by random slow motion sprinting must really put me on edge. Some days I cry until I remember that I’m actually really angry. And then I cry some more. Other days I'm smiling because everything will likely work out in the end. Surely, my wildly swinging emotions must be related to sleep deprivation, and nothing else…right? Right.
Psychiatrist: 1
Bambi: 0
Friday, June 1, 2012
Moments That Matter
After another week on Weight Watchers, I’m
up by more than half a pound at last night’s weigh-in, and I cry in front of
the Weight Watchers ladies. My shower
head breaks this morning, and the open fixture sprays water all over my
bathroom. I wasn’t even doing anything
exciting with the shower head.
While wiping down my bathroom walls with my
towel, I knock two of my favorite rings down the sink drain hole. After rescuing my rings with the painstaking
use of a chopstick, I get into a text message argument with Alex, and then I’m
running late. The argument is about Alex
not texting me one time when he said he would, and at some point the subject of
tranny porn comes up. Don’t ask me,
because I don’t know why either.
My back is really hurting and I have to try
three times to get my shoes on. I don’t eat breakfast, because I’m late for
work already, and afraid that eating anything would cause me to gain more
weight instantaneously and then I’d have to wear my bathrobe to the office. It
will be the only thing left that fits me.
I notice a random cracker crisp on my floor
in the hallway while I’m rushing out the door.
I’m too sore to pick it up. I
step on the cracker crisp by accident.
There are now cracker crisp crumbs all over my hallway, which wouldn’t
be there if I had picked up the cracker crisp.
During my drive to work, I gesture rudely
at a biker who falls onto my car. It’s
Bike to Work Week, otherwise known as Everybody Gets to Be Really Fucking Late
to Work Week because bikers don’t know what they’re doing. This one loses his balance trying to look
cool at a red light, and falls over onto the hood of my car. This would be fine, providing he manages to
wipe off some of the bird poo with his body.
The bird poo miraculously remains undisturbed.
I get to work and notice I forgot to remove
the XL sticker pasted over my boob. I
notice the XL sticker pasted over my boob only after talking to nearly all of
my colleagues with my XL boob front and center.
I leave work to walk across the street to
get my tea. There’s a Tim Horton’s
outlet in the hospital across the street, and I need Tim Horton’s steeped tea
to function. I walk through the hospital
atrium and see my friend Louise from my old job. We never spent time together outside of work
and meetings, but I always liked her a great deal.
Louise is bald. She didn’t used to be bald.
Oh no.
We’re so happy to see one another. Louise and I talk. She wants to know where I landed, and I tell
her about my new job. She tells me about
her current chances. She found out today
she’s facing another round of chemo and a clinical trial. In 65% of patients, the first round of chemo
knocks it out. Louise is part of the
35%, and had been hoping she wasn’t. She’s
80% better though, and just needs another 20%.
She hasn’t been at work since February. She
remembers the exact date she got the news and stopped going to work, and we
laugh. Not that it’s funny, but she
tells me about how there was before and how there was after, and it’s so hard
now to even think about the before and she laughs and I laugh because I totally
get that.
Then we hug for a long time. Louise tells me she is so glad she saw me
this morning and says she has to run along to the cancer clinic. We wish each other all the very best luck in
the world. I’m so glad I saw Louise this morning too.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
And then I threatened to punch an elderly woman in the face.
For the most part, I really like my new
fundraising job. I don’t know what I’m
doing at all, but luckily there’s a very simple equation that should help
narrow my focus. It goes like this:
Bambi + ? = $100,000,000 raised for a
worthy cause
No problem, right? All I have to do is figure out whatever that
tiny little question mark stands for, and I’ll be raking in donations with a
backhoe.
In the mean time, I’ve been getting
acquainted with our clients, volunteers and community partners, who are for the
most part, lovely people.
And then there’s Maude.
At 83 years old, Maude is one of our
longest serving volunteers. She’s a very
fashionable dresser, who told me when I complimented her on her summery outfit,
that since she retired, she sees no reason why she shouldn’t dress like she’s
embarking on a pleasure cruise every day.
From what I’ve seen of the woman, she takes this look deadly serious.
Maude came to a recent information session
my agency hosted, and mingled with the crowd. Afterward, as I cleared up the
coffee and tea station, Maude approached me with a question.
“A bunch of us were wondering, dear. Are you pregnant?”
First of all…no. Just, no.
Unless there is a clearly identifiable baby head emerging from my vagina
while I scream for drugs and or the castration of whatever bastard did this to
me, let’s all safely assume I am not with child.
In fact, let’s assume that with my current
sex life, any resulting pregnancy should be immediately reported to the Vatican. It’s not that I’m a virgin, but given my
recent surgical history and how very long it’s been, it’s safe to say I could
qualify as such under most technical definitions of virginity.
I am however, kind of fluffy. To make matters worse, the dress I was
wearing had a funny little bunching of extra material over my tummy that pulls
to the side. Perhaps this decorative
flourish simply drew undue attention to my mid-section.
I told Maude I was not pregnant, thinking
this would be her cue to walk away from any ensuing awkward conversation while both
of us still stood a chance of salvaging dignity.
“Oh. So it’s just your weight then is it?”
I was really, really starting to hate the
shit out of Maude.
Actually, I explained to Maude, it could be
a bad wardrobe choice. Yes, I could
stand to lose a few pounds after winter, but my dress was a little too big in
the middle as a matter of fact, with extra material bunched and pulled, which
may make it appear as a maternity dress.
Maude was having none of it.
Faster than I thought an 83 year old could
bend, she suddenly had her well-coiffed old lady head resting against my
stomach. In explanation of why her anchor shaped earring was pressing into
my belly button, she said that she was so surprised more people hadn’t come up
to me during the event to do exactly what she was doing, and listen for the
baby kicking.
I bent to the side so Maude could see my
not so motherly face staring at hers.
“I’m glad more people didn’t do what you’re
doing right now, because then I’d have to punch them in the face. Because it’s rude. And because I. Am. Not. Pregnant. Am I clear?”
Apparently, I was not, because Maude
straightened up and patted my cheek like I was a sweetly dim-witted child.
“Well it would be OK if you were,
dear. There’s no shame in pregnancy!”
Indeed.
There is however, a considerable amount of shame when there’s no
pregnancy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)